


The Distance Between Two Bodies

by luxover



Series: The Distance Between Two Bodies [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re a team and they decide shit like this together; Villa didn’t pick Barcelona without running it by Silva, and now Silva—he just fucking goes and picks a team in a different goddamn country and doesn’t even think that Villa might want to know, doesn’t even think that maybe Villa will have something to say about the distance or the fact that it’s in a <i>different goddamn country</i> and—</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Distance Between Two Bodies

Villa watches as Silva stares at him from the doorway. He likes the black jacket that Silva’s wearing, and he likes the plain white t-shirt that Silva’s wearing, too, because Villa knows that it belongs to him; he can see the Sharpie stain on the bottom hem from when he dropped the marker while signing autographs. He likes that, when Silva wears his clothes.

Silva leans against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, and he’s silent for so long that Villa almost thinks he’s not ever going to say anything. So Villa does what he can and fills the silence.

“Looks like we’ll be rivals,” he says. “You fucking _merengue._ ” Villa signed for Barcelona before the World Cup, and now all that’s left are the formalities of welcome; Silva’s expected to sign for Real Madrid any day now.

But Silva shakes his head, says, “I’m not playing for Real.”

“Then who the fuck are you playing for?” Villa asks, and he’s gonna be pissed if Valencia’s decided to keep him, because Villa doesn’t want to leave any more than Silva does, doesn’t love Valencia any less than Silva does.

Silva pushes himself off the doorjamb and walks towards where Villa is sitting on the edge of the bed, and Villa can see him swallow hard, can see that he’s nervous even if he doesn’t want to show it.

“I’m signing for Man City,” he says.

Villa thinks, says, “But Man City’s in fucking—”

“I know,” Silva says, and he shrugs like maybe the distance doesn’t mean anything to him. “But if I can’t play with you, I won’t play against you.”

“Fuck you,” Villa says, because that’s not fair, that’s not fucking fair. They’re a team and they decide shit like this together; Villa didn’t pick Barcelona without running it by Silva, and now Silva—he just fucking goes and picks a team in a different goddamn country and doesn’t even think that Villa might want to know, doesn’t even think that maybe Villa will have something to say about the distance or the fact that it’s in a _different goddamn country_ and—

And maybe he’s been saying all that out loud, because then Silva says, “It’s a two hour flight; this doesn’t change anything, Guaje.”

“It changes everything,” he snaps, although he doesn’t mean it, just says it to make Silva feel as shitty as he does.

Something in Silva’s posture changes, then, his spine straightens out and his shoulders slide back. It makes Villa feel like an asshole, to know that he’s the one that did that, that he’s the reason Silva’s clenching his jaw, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

“We can see other people,” Silva says. “If you want.”

“No, I don’t fucking want to,” Villa says. “Shut the fuck up.” But then he realizes that maybe Silva said that because _he_ wants to see other people, and Villa—what can he say to that? He can’t say anything to that.

“Good,” Silva says, and he visibly deflates, goes back to slouching.

He’s right there, right in front of Villa, close enough to touch, and so Villa reaches out, tugs lightly on the bottom of Silva’s shirt. He seems so tall when Villa’s sitting down.

“Good,” he says, and then Silva’s smiling, smiling wide and showing him all these teeth, and Villa thinks that he looks beautiful like that, that he should always look like that.

He leans forward and fists the denim at Silva’s thighs, pulls Silva to him and places a kiss to his clothed stomach. He breathes deep, smells Silva’s laundry detergent and his cologne and the sweat on his skin.

“I can’t deal with this shit,” he says, and it’s muffled by Silva’s shirt.

“We have to,” Silva says, and he uses _we,_ and that makes more of a difference than it should. Villa looks up and Silva’s looking back at him, and he looks nervous and hopeful and unsure, and Villa feels the exact fucking same.

He licks his lips and then Silva bends down to kiss him, one hand along the front of his neck, fingertips on his pulse point. It’s a lazy kiss, smaller ones that turn into something more, something with a lot of tongue and that’s not rushed, not frenzied at all.

“I’m so fucking mad at you,” Villa says when he pulls away; they’ve been together at Valencia for four years, and Villa had restructured his life thinking that it was always going to be that way.

“I know,” Silva says. He runs the pad of his thumb over Villa’s lower lip, over the small patch of hair there, and adds, “I’m mad at you, too.”

Villa knows Silva doesn’t mean it because he doesn’t mean it, either.

“Take off your shirt,” he says, and he takes the tip of Silva’s thumb into his mouth, bites down on it lightly.

“Pushy,” Silva comments, but it sounds more nostalgic than anything. He stays where he is and shrugs out of his jacket, lets it fall to the floor, and then he pulls his shirt over his head by the hem at the back of his neck. The movement messes up his hair, causes it to stand up all over the place, and Villa likes that he doesn’t try to flatten it back down.

He steps back and smiles, the tip of his tongue peaking out of the corner of his mouth as he stands there shirtless. He raises an eyebrow as Villa looks at him, and he has to know how he looks, has to know that the smooth expanse of his chest still drives Villa crazy.

Villa wants to touch him all over.

He reaches out and grabs Silva by the belt buckle, tugs him closer and kisses his stomach again, this time wet and open-mouthed on his skin. Fingers in his hair pull him back, and even then it’s only so Silva can kiss him on the mouth.

Silva’s hands run down Villa’s sides until they find the hem of his shirt, and then he pulls it up and over his head; Villa stops kissing Silva and pulls back just for as long as it takes to get his shirt off and for him to scoot back, to stretch out on the bed.

Silva lies half next to him, half on top of him, his fingertips tracing the line of Villa’s collarbones as they kiss. He bites down on Villa’s bottom lip and pins Villa’s wrists down where they are at his sides, and none of that is new but none of that is usual, either. Villa likes to be the one in charge, usually, likes to be the one who decides what and when and how much, but he doesn’t stop Silva or try to flip them around because Silva’s fingers are tight around his bones and one of Silva’s thighs is between Villa’s own and because their hips are lined up perfectly, pressed together just right.

When Silva shifts so that he’s straddling Villa, the thought that he could move and take the upper hand still isn’t there in Villa’s brain. Instead he just takes his hands and brackets them one on either side of Silva’s hips, holds Silva where he is as he grinds up into him.

“Fuck,” Silva says into the kiss, and Villa loves that, loves that the only time he really ever curses is when they’re in bed together.

They stay like that for a while, lazily kissing each other, rocking against each other as if they had all the time in the world. It’s been years and so Villa’s long since stopped being surprised by it, but he likes the fact that they can just stay there like that, in bed, kissing in their jeans. He’s never liked kissing someone as much as he likes kissing Silva.

And then Silva sits back on his heels and smiles down at Villa, and Villa thinks, fuck, that _mouth,_ because he loves Silva’s mouth, loves his lips and his tongue and his teeth.

“When I first met you,” Silva says, and it’s been ages since they’ve last talked like that, _when_ _I first met you_ , “I thought you were an asshole.”

Villa laughs at that, a loud bark of laughter that has him closing his eyes. He didn’t expect that one.

“Why?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Silva tells him. “Maybe it was the soul patch.”

“I told you I’d shave it,” Villa reminds him.

“I don’t want you to.”

“Okay,” Villa says. “When I first met you…” He doesn’t finish the thought; doesn’t need to.

“I know,” Silva says, and he runs his fingertips in stripes from the tops of Villa’s shoulders down to the waistline of his jeans. “You’re going to look good in _blaugrana_.”

Villa arches his back, wishes Silva would put his entire palms flat on him. Silva does him one better, leans down and kisses Villa’s chest just above his right nipple. Villa threads his fingers in Silva’s hair and Silva bites down, just on the right side of too hard, and then licks at Villa’s skin with the flat of his tongue as if in apology.

Then he makes his way across Villa’s chest, peppering light kisses on his skin until he finds the soft skin of Villa’s ribcage. He bites down again—hard, again—and then licks and sucks the skin there. When he pulls away, he leaves behind teeth marks and spit.

He does that all over Villa’s chest and stomach, the inside of his elbows and the soft underside of his jaw, until Villa’s skin is spotted red.

“Fuck, Silva,” Villa says, and then when Silva looks at him, he says, “Nothing, nothing.” He leans forward to kiss Silva and their hands are scrambling with belt buckles. Villa can’t wait any longer, can’t not be touching Silva, not when he’s right in front of him.

Silva has to get off from on top of him in order to take his jeans off, and Villa uses that time to shimmy out of his own jeans and lay Silva out flat on his back, naked.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, look at you.”

“Look at _you,_ ” Silva says, and he presses his thumb down on one of the bite marks on Villa’s side. Villa leans down to kiss him and reaches a hand in between them, wraps his fingers around Silva’s cock and pumps his hand once, twice, just enough to get Silva breathing heavily. When Silva groans and tries to reach out to him, Villa nips at his lips and pins his hands down above his head.

“Fuck,” he says again. “Silva.” He keeps biting at Silva’s lips because he likes it when he pulls back and Silva’s lips are red, plump.

“Gonna miss this every night,” Silva says, and Villa bites back the retort, _Every night except for before a match,_ even though that’s probably what Silva’s expecting him to say. He just doesn’t want to think about it.

“Don’t,” he says. “Not now.” He runs the pad of his thumb over Silva’s lips and it comes back with a small streak of blood. Villa feels bad for a second, licks his own lips even though he knows he won’t taste Silva on them, and then moves to rest his hand at the base of Silva’s neck.

“I am, though,” Silva says, and he smiles, just a little one that has him biting his lower lip. “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.” And that—

“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says, and he ignores the fact that his voice is soft when he says it. There was a time—back years ago, almost a lifetime ago—when Villa couldn’t say it, wouldn’t say it, refused to tell Silva that he loved him and that he thought he was the most amazing person he’d ever met. And so instead, Villa always said what he could: “Nice goal,” and, “I left you a clean towel in the bathroom,” and, “I think you’re a tremendous footballer.” And as time went on, as everything else fell to the wayside, Villa would say it again and again in the hopes that Silva would understand. “ _I think you’re a tremendous footballer._ ”

“What?” Silva says, but he knows what. “I do.”

“I think you are, too,” Villa says. And then perhaps because it’s important and perhaps because he has no other choice, and also perhaps because he means it, he really does, he says, “I think you’ll be tremendous at City, too.”

He kisses Silva then, slow and with a lot of tongue, and everything’s changed, the entire mood of the night shifted to something else entirely. He lets Silva open him up—one finger, then two, then three—and then he lowers himself down, rides Silva into the mattress in an attempt to get closer and closer and closer.

And it’s—it’s perfect, pretty fucking perfect because Silva knows everything that Villa likes already, knows when to touch him and when to run the pads of his thumbs over Villa’s nipples and when to grind his hips up to meet Villa’s thrust for thrust. But it’s still there, still in the back of his mind that Silva’s leaving him—no, not him, leaving _Spain_ —and so when Silva comes, Villa works hard to keep his eyes open, to memorize the lines of Silva’s face, until it all becomes too much and he squeezes shut his eyes, comes with a shout into Silva’s hand.

And later, when Silva’s asleep and he is not, he pulls Silva closer to his chest and he thinks, _Don’t fuck this one up,_ because he is good at that, good at fucking things up, and he can’t afford to this time.

 

After that, time moves differently, almost. It’s like Villa is constantly reminded that time is running out, that Silva is leaving soon, that the start of the football season isn’t something to be looking forward to this time.

Silva brings him breakfast in bed one morning, after they fuck lazily on top of the sheets, the sun streaming in through the blinds. He walks into the room balancing two bowls and a cup of orange juice, and he’s wearing nothing put a pair of Villa’s boxers, his hair all over the place and sticking up in the back. Villa wants to lick his skin again.

Instead, he says, “That was fast.”

“I’m good at what I do,” Silva says, and he smiles. “ _Gofio_ and milk.” He kneels carefully onto the bed and holds his hands out for Villa to help him with the breakfast.

“Are you serious?” Villa asks. “Yesterday I made you a fucking omelet.”

“Don’t lie,” Silva says, and he settles in, mixes up his _gofio_ with a spoon. “You’re gonna miss it when I’m not making you eat it.”

“Not likely,” Villa says, because to be honest, he doesn’t really like _gofio_. But it’s not horrible and Silva loves it—grew up on it, he says—and so Villa deals with it.

“So what are you up to today?” Silva asks, and Villa’s amazed by the fact that he blinked and Silva’s bowl is half empty already.

“Nothing,” Villa says. “I don’t know. I kind of need to buy clothing.”

“Can I come?” Silva says, and then he starts spooning the rest of his _gofio_ into his mouth. “I call first shower.” He sets his empty bowl on the end table and darts into the bathroom.

When Villa hears the water start running, he takes their bowls into the kitchen and empties his own into the trash. He eats a banana for breakfast and then joins Silva in the shower.

 

Since Silva doesn’t really care what he wears and barely ever buys anything new, Villa makes an executive decision and takes them where he wants to go.

“DSquared?” Silva asks when they get there. “Are you serious?”

“What? I like it,” Villa says. “And so do you. You steal my shirts from here all the time.”

“No, I don’t,” Silva says, and he hits Villa’s shoulder with his own as they head inside.

“You do! The blue one? With all the writing on it and shit?”

“Oh,” Silva says. “That’s from here?”

“Yeah,” Villa says. He stops to look at a pair of pants, and Silva just hangs around. He doesn’t shop and Villa doesn’t get it; Silva literally does not care, and yet he looks more than presentable every day. It’s a miracle.

“Oh,” Silva says again. “I like that shirt.”

“And I like you in that shirt,” Villa leers, but only because no one is around.

Silva doesn’t say anything, but Villa can see the way he bites his lip and smiles, and so he considers it a victory.

He goes around the store and picks stuff out—shirts and pants and jackets, and even a lightweight scarf or two—and half of it he keeps and the other half he passes to Silva. If he’s going to be honest, he’s pretty fucking impressed that Silva hasn’t bailed on him and gone to the bookstore across the street.

“Are you almost done?” Silva asks, and the way he says it doesn’t imply anything else, but Villa knows better.

“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says. “You’re not that bored.”

“Getting there, though.”

“Alright, alright,” Villa says. “Let’s go try this stuff on.”

Silva shrugs and walks with Villa to the fitting rooms, and when Villa hangs up the clothing that he was holding, Silva motions to pass the rest to him.

“What the fuck are you doing? Those are for you,” Villa says.

“Oh,” Silva says. “Really? Okay.” He heads to one of the dressing rooms and Villa grabs his wrist.

“What, that’s it? Just okay?” he asks, and he’s immediately suspicious. Silva is not usually one for trying on clothing.

“Yeah,” Silva says with a shrug and a smile. “Okay.” He goes into his fitting room and leaves Villa outside.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Villa says through the door, “but I’m so fucking onto you, it’s not even funny.”

“Villa, I’m not doing anything,” Silva says. “I’m trying on clothes.”

“Sure,” Villa replies as he heads into his own fitting room. “Right.”

 

They leave a little while later because they have plans to meet some of the guys from the squad for a late lunch. They both buy stuff—too much, almost—and Villa likes that, likes that Silva listens to him and picks the things the Villa says he likes the most.

They’re running late, though, so they hop a cab across town and bicker over who gets to pay the fare. Villa wins, and then when they get to the restaurant, Mata and Alexis are already there at a table.

“Silva!” Alexis cries. And then he adds, “And you, you _culé_ motherfucker, you got some nerve showing your face around here.”

Villa laughs, says, “Shut the fuck up; you’re looking to leave, too,” and takes his seat. “Elche, right?”

Alexis flicks him off and Silva ignores the entire exchange, just says, “Hey guys,” and sits next to Villa. He’s quiet, the only way everybody else ever gets to see him. “No Pablo?”

“Nah,” Mata says. “Meeting the girlfriend’s parents, apparently. But he says hi.”

“Bummer,” Silva says. “I’ll say goodbye to him later, I guess.”

“Man,” Villa says, and he says it like, _I can’t believe this._ “The end of an era, right here.”

“You’ll be back,” Mata says. “You can’t resist my charm.”

“What charm?” Alexis asks, and he rolls his eyes.

“Hey!” Mata says. “I’ll have you know, the ladies say I’m _very_ charming.”

Villa says, “Your mother doesn’t count,” and Mata stands up, fakes like he’s going to punch Villa in the mouth.

“I am going to miss this, though,” Silva says, and he lets his leg lean against Villa’s under the table. Then, almost as if he realized what he had said, he adds, “Not hanging out with you; I mean this restaurant.”

They erupt into laughter and Silva ducks his head, almost as if he’s embarrassed, although Villa doesn’t know why he would be.

“The fucking best Paella Valenciana in all the land,” Alexis says, and he waves his water glass in the air in a mock toast, and Mata leans over to pinch Silva’s cheeks.

“Going to miss your adorable face,” he says the voice that he uses to talk to his dog.

“Shut up,” Silva says, and he pulls away. “This is why I’m moving to England; they appreciate me, there.”

“They’re still going to make fun of you,” Mata starts.

“You just won’t fucking understand a word of it,” Alexis says, and he laughs, spills some of his water.

Villa looks at Silva and says, “Should’ve signed with Barcelona.”

Their waiter walks up to the table and opens his little notepad, saying, “May I get you anything?”

“Don’t even get me started!” Mata yells at Villa, completely ignoring the waiter, and at the same time Alexis says, “You’re the enemy now.”

Villa cups a hand behind his ear and says, “What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over all the trophies I’m about to win.”

An argument breaks out, one that’s mostly just name-calling and accusations of glory-hunting, and even though he’s not really paying attention, Villa hears Silva turn to the waiter and say, “I think we need a minute, please.”

If he’s going to be honest, he thinks they probably need more than one.

 

They stay out later than Villa ever expected; by the time they get home, it’s already dark out and Villa is exhausted. He watches as Silva throws his shopping bags down on the foyer floor and heads into the living room.

“Just throw your shit on the floor,” Villa says. “Don’t worry; I got it.”

Silva just laughs from the other room and says, “Hey, Villa?”

“Yeah?”

“C’mere.”

Villa shrugs off his jacket and hangs it in the hall closet and then walks into the living room; Silva is slouched on the couch, his knees splayed wide and his head back. He’s look at Villa through his eyelashes.

“No,” Villa says. “Fucking _no,_ I _knew_ it.”

“Come on, Villa,” Silva says, and he smiles like he’s really enjoying this. He probably is, Villa thinks. “I went shopping with you and I didn’t even complain once.”

“I didn’t make you come,” Villa says, and the second he says that, he wants to take it back.

“But you can make me come now,” Silva says, and he’s still smiling, still finding this hilarious.

“You’re such an asshole,” Villa says, but he walks over drops to his knees between Silva’s legs. He pushes Silva’s shirt up to his armpits and kisses down his chest, his stomach, all the way to his belt buckle. “I’m going to make you beg for it.”

And he does.

 

He tells Silva that he’ll help him pack, but he doesn’t, not really. He tries to, at first, but it feels too strange to be boxing up parts of Silva’s life as if they were being shipped away, never to return. There are so many of Silva’s things that Villa almost looks at as if they were his own—cds, photos, a jacket or two—that to be helping Silva pack is like packing away his own life, even though he knows that logically, who he is does not start and end with Silva. He sits there, though, sits on the desk or on a chair by the window or on the floor, and he talks as Silva folds his clothes and packs his shoes and wraps a framed photo of the two of them in a t-shirt so that it doesn’t break on the way over.

“What if you come back pale?” Villa asks, lying on the bed. He’s awkwardly positioned and so his feet dangle over the edge. “Pepe says that the chance of sun over there is slim to none.”

“I’m not coming back pale,” Silva says, and he laughs, shake his hair out of his eyes. And then he stops packing and looks right at Villa and says, “I’m coming back exactly the same, Villa,” and something about that makes Villa so uncomfortable because he never meant to be so transparent about what he thought, because it’s stupid, so stupid to think that anything will be different just because Silva’s in a different league; Villa’s on a different team in a different city and nothing’s changed for him at all.

“So how’s it feel?” he asks, to get the attention off of himself. “You nervous?”

“Not really,” Silva says. “I told you I talked to Tévez once or twice and he seemed nice, so it should be alright.”

“But their play is so different,” Villa says.

“I know,” Silva says, and he sits on the first suitcase in order to be able to zip it. “But I’m already signed and everything, so there’s no use worrying now. What about you? Barcelona, I mean…” He trails off and Villa gets it, gets that he’s saying, _Barcelona is a different style of play, too._

“What’s to be nervous about?” Villa asks. “I know almost everyone already. Still fucking sucks, though.”

“No it doesn’t,” Silva tells him. “You’re playing for the best team in La Liga now.” Villa assumes that he’s trying to make him see reason, trying to make him see the positive side of things. Villa’s not interested; there is no fucking positive side to a shitload of Valencia debt needing to be paid.

“What’s the positive side to not being able to play with you?” Villa asks. Silva takes a while to answer.

“There is none,” Silva says.

“I already know that,” Villa says, but it’s not said rudely, just matter of fact, because he did, he already knew.

Silva doesn’t say anything this time, just sprawls out on the bed next to Villa, their bodies pressed together at their shoulders, their hips, their toes touching where they hang over the mattress. It helps, a little.

 

The drive to the airport is quiet. Villa tells Silva that he’ll drive him, no problem, and Silva doesn’t tell him that he doesn’t have to, that he can get a cab or that it’s better not because people will see.

It’s an evening flight—takeoff is at seven—and even though it’s unusual for Villa to want to, they hold hands as he drives, their fingers tangled by the center console.

Villa parks and they kiss—quickly—while still inside the car. Villa walks with him to the doors and walks with him to check in and walks with him to the start of security, where he is not allowed.

Silva makes the first move, hugs Villa tight around the shoulders, and Villa hugs back, his eyes shut.

“It’s just a few weeks,” Villa says, to comfort Silva, even though Silva seems to be fine. “Hopefully we’ll both make national call-ups, and then…”

Silva smiles, says, “And if not, I’ll fly back anyways.”

“Okay,” Villa says, and then he pauses for a minute. “Fuck, Silva.”

“I know,” Silva says. “But I’ll call you when I land.”

And then that’s it, he turns and walks away, looking back as he takes off his shoes at security. And suddenly Villa feels this thing in his chest—and he’s not sure what it is, not really, because he’s never felt it before—and it’s just taking up all the space in his chest and he wants to do something, only he doesn’t know what.

“Silva!” he yells out. He’s already on the other side of the metal detector. “Fucking _tremendous_ footballer.”

And Silva smiles so widely that it looks like his face might split into two, and he yells back, “You too.”

Villa smiles as he walks back to the car, but the drive is quiet and when he gets back, the house is empty and his bed is too big.

 

He’s woken up in the middle of the night when his phone rings.

“Fuck, what?” he says when he picks up, and he doesn’t even know who it is, hasn’t even opened his eyes.

“I landed,” Silva says, and he laughs. Villa thinks that with his eyes shut, it’s almost like Silva’s right there. “And I’m at my apartment.”

“Oh,” Villa says, and he sits up. “Oh. Hey. How was the flight?”

“You know,” Silva says. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to let you get back to sleep,” Silva says. “But I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Hey, I can talk,” Villa says.

“I know,” Silva tells him. “And thanks. But I’m kind of tired, too.”

“Okay,” Villa says. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

 

And it’s true—they talk the next day, no problem. Villa calls him as he’s walking down the cereal aisle at the grocery store, and Silva’s not busy, and so they talk.

“What kind of cereal do I want?” Villa asks.

Silva laughs, says, “You’re moving in like three days.”

“I fucking know that,” Villa tells him, “but I need to eat.”

“Did your love handles tell you that?” Silva asks, and Villa laughs because he likes that Silva’s like this with him, playful and bold and open, because he’s so quiet around everyone else.

“Fuck you,” Villa says.

“A few weeks.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Okay,” Silva says. And then, “Get Frosties. It’s the best when the milk at the bottom is all sugary.”

“They’re already in my cart,” Villa says. “You were useless and I moved on without you.”

“Well, now, that’s just inconsiderate,” Silva tells him.

“Alright,” Villa says as he walks towards check-out. “I promise not to do it again.”

“Good,” Silva says.

“Good.”

 

When Villa packs up, it’s a different story; he’s done in a few hours and he does it alone. He takes a taxi to the airport and even though it’s a short flight, he sleeps the entire way with his cheek mashed against the window. He calls Silva from the taxi but Silva doesn’t pick up, and when he gets to his apartment, he goes right back to sleep.

 

He wakes up late the next morning because, for some reason, his phone was on silent and the alarm didn’t go off. Silva left him a message earlier, and Villa listens to it in bed.

“Hey,” Silva says. “It’s me. Just calling on my way to practice to see how you’re doing and how your flight was. First day of practice today and—I don’t know—I’m kind of nervous, even though it’s stupid. Some of the players speak Spanish, though, so it shouldn’t be that bad. But, um. Hey. Call me later tonight? Or I can call you; either way. Alright. Bye.”

Villa checks the time and it’s only a quarter to twelve, meaning it’s not even one yet in Manchester; Silva’s still at practice, then, Villa knows, and so he rolls out of bed to shower and attempt to be a productive human being.

When he’s dressed, his first thought is to go grocery shopping, but then he decides, _Fuck it,_ and goes to find someplace where he can eat out. He walks out his door and down the street, just picking a random direction because it’s not like he knows where the fuck things are, anyways. It’s hot out, and real fucking sunny, too, and so Villa shoves his sunglasses on his face. It’s a nice city, Barcelona; he can see himself liking it here well enough.

 

Silva calls later that night like he said he would.

“How was it?” Villa asks.

“Um,” Silva says. “It was alright. I don’t know, they seem alright.”

“Okay,” Villa says. “So that’s good.”

“They taped a picture of Xabi getting kicked by de Jong in my locker.”

“So they’re assholes,” Villa says.

“Nah,” Silva tells him. “They just meant it as a joke. Carlos is really nice, though. He helped me, you know, get around and everything.”

“Carlos, huh?” Villa asks.

“Shut up,” Silva says. “He’s nice.”

“Alright, alright,” Villa says, and he laughs. “So it’s good?”

“Yeah,” Silva says. “Yeah, I think so.”

And Villa doesn’t say it—it’s not something he would even know how to say—but he’s beyond glad that Silva is happy, or at least getting there. If anyone deserves big things, it’s Silva.

 

He talks with Pep before his first practice—“It’s Pep, please; just Pep”—and Pep offers to let him meet the rest of the squad in his street clothes before being thrown into his first practice. Villa waves the comment away, tells him that he’ll be fine just diving right in because he already knows most of the squad and that he has to start sometime, anyways.

One of the trainers meets him at the parking lot and then helps him find his way through Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper to the locker room. When he walks in, everyone is changing and no one even notices that he’s walked in until Gerard looks up and sees him.

“Well, well, well,” he says. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

And then Victor looks up and says, “David fucking Villa,” like that means something. Villa tells them to shut up.

He says hi to everyone, hugs Puyi and slaps hands with Sergio, and is introduced to Dani and Maxwell and Eric. And it’s not—he not going to fucking _say_ anything about it, but he’s kind of disappointed and confused that Messi’s not there because he wanted to meet Messi. And of course he already knows Messi—he’s played against him and done ads with him and talked with him at awards ceremonies—but it’s different, meeting someone as a teammate; Messi’s the best in the world, and Villa just wants to—

He doesn’t know what he just wants to, but it’s _Messi._

“He’s outside,” Andrés says to him when he’s changing and everyone has more or less gone back to getting ready for practice.

“What?” Villa asks.

“Leo,” Andrés says. “He’s out on the pitch warming up already.”

“Oh,” Villa says. “It’s still early though.”

“I know,” Andrés says, and he shrugs.

 

Outside, they warm up by jogging around the pitch and Messi joins them. Xavi does the polite thing—introduces them even though they don’t really need it—and Villa laughs.

“I think everyone in the world knows who Messi is,” he says.

“Actually,” Messi says, and he’s got this lopsided smile on his face, “I prefer to be called the Messiah.”

Puyi shoves him, says, “Quit teasing the new kid,” and Messi laughs.

“It’s Leo,” he says. “Just Leo. But I just wanted to say that I’m really, um. I’m really excited to have you on the squad this year. I mean, I was excited when Pep first told us, and then after the World Cup you had—”

“Oh my god,” Gerard interrupts. “Poor Anotella, she’ll never see this coming.”

Villa wants to fucking smack Gerard, because how much more awkward can he make things? But it’s alright because Leo doesn’t seem to find it awkward, either; he just shrugs it off and says, “Hey, he’s a good player.”

Villa laughs at that and says, “You’re _Leo Messi_.”

Leo smiles and says, “You’re _David Villa_ ,” and Villa supposes he’s right.

 

The rest of practice is easy—not physically, but it’s easy to hang with the guys and surprisingly easy to learn and understand the differences between Barcelona’s and La Roja’s _tiki taka_. And of course it’s only been one day, so he’s not even close to ready yet, but practice was easygoing and he likes the guys, likes Pep.

It’s not Valencia; no other team can be Valencia, not to him, but Barcelona is probably as close as it gets, and he’s relieved.

 

He changes back into his street clothes after practice, and as he’s leaving the locker room, Xavi calls out to him and makes sure he’s free on Friday to go out to dinner with some of the guys from the squad. Villa thinks that’s pretty fucking nice of him, going out of his way to make him feel a part of the team and not just treating him like he already is one because he’s friends with most of the squad. There are not a lot of people like Xavi out there, Villa knows.

He calls Silva on the walk to his car, and Silva answers from in the shower. Villa can hear the water going in the background and Silva sounds far away, like he’s holding the phone a foot away from his face in an effort to keep it dry.

“Just call me back,” Villa offers.

“Thanks,” Silva tells him. “I really want to hear about your first day, but um,” he laughs a little, “I’m kind of in the shower, if you couldn’t already tell.”

So Villa hangs up and he drives home, and the entire time he does, all he can think of is how Silva looks when he’s wet, water matting his hair down before sliding down the slope of his nose and his cheekbones, down his neck and his chest and his thighs.

When he gets to his house, he throws his duffel bag on the floor in the foyer and then heads into the kitchen. He left his laptop charging on one of the counters, and he opens it up, doesn’t even bother to sit down. There’s a picture of him and Silva set as the background, and it’s a little embarrassing but no one else is going to see it, and so Villa doesn’t mind too much.

He’s got a couple of emails—one from Mata just to catch up, one from Cesc that’s just a chain letter about love, and one from Manchester City.

And that last one—that last one is really fucking embarrassing, embarrassing to the point that not even Silva knows about it. It’s kind of pathetic, Villa knows, that he’s signed up for emails from a club that he didn’t even give a shit about a few months ago.

There’s an exclusive interview out, one with Silva that they’ve been hyping for a week solid, and even though Villa could call Silva right now—could talk to the real thing—he clicks on the video link and turns up the volume.

And Silva looks—Silva looks good, of fucking course he looks good, it’s _Silva_ , but he looks especially good because Villa hasn’t seen him in almost two weeks.

“How do you feel? How is living in Manchester?” the interviewer asks, and Villa thinks, _Fuck, he hasn’t even played a match yet._

“Very happy,” Silva says, and it’s all being done in Spanish. Villa can see him shift and how his eyes are always looking over the interviewer’s shoulder, and his voice is quiet, reserved; so unlike how he is when they are alone. “Since the moment I arrived here, people have treated me very well, with a lot of kindness, and so I’m really grateful.”

“And are you nervous?” the interviewer asks. “Your first match in the English Premier League is in two days time.”

“A little,” Silva says, “I guess, but football is football no matter where you are, and I am confident in my abilities.”

“What about your size? Many people feel that will be an obstacle for you in the Premier League.”

“I don’t worry about it,” Silva says. “There’s nothing in football that requires you to be tall. Look at Messi; he’s the best player in the world, and he’s not tall, and nobody would say that he couldn’t play in the EPL if he wanted to.” He shakes his head. “Height doesn’t matter to me.”

Villa’s phone rings, then, and it surprises him, makes him jump about four feet in the air. His fingers race for the phone and send it skittering off the counter and onto the floor, and he goes racing after it.

“Dammit,” he says to himself as he flicks open his phone. “Hello?”

“Um—I can call back?” Silva asks.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Villa says.

“Oh, okay, good,” Silva says. “So? How was it?”

“Good,” Villa says. “Really good, actually. Xavi says hi.”

Silva laughs, says, “Well tell him I say hi back.”

“Alright,” David says, and he leans his hip against the counter. “But fuck, Silva, you should’ve been there with me. It was just like national call-ups, only you weren’t there and Messi was.”

“So at least you know almost everyone,” he says. “How’s Messi? You know, as a teammate?”

“He’s nice,” Villa says. “More outspoken than I expected, but besides that, exactly what everyone says; humble and really, really fucking good. He makes everything look so _easy_.”

“So you’ll finally win the league, then,” Silva says. “I’ll live vicariously through you.”

Villa laughs, says, “Shut the fuck up.”

“No,” Silva says. “You’re going to win everything.”

And somehow, without Villa even knowing that he wanted it, Silva tells him exactly what he needed to hear.

 

Everything kind of goes like that for a while, practicing and calling each other whenever they have the time. It works well enough, Villa supposes, even though there are days that he comes home and his house is empty and he gets suddenly and inexplicably mad at everyone and no one at all. But it’s alright, in the end, because even though Silva’s not there, they talk, and even though he may not be in love with the Barça crest, he’s in love with the squad.

They Skype after Silva’s first match with Man City. It was a good match to watch, Villa thinks; he was glued to the fucking screen the entire time, anxious although he had no need to be. Hart’s a good keeper, kept City out of trouble, and Silva even got a nice shot off, although it was blocked and Tévez lost the chance to score on the follow-up.

“Would have been nice to win, though,” Silva says, “or to score,” and he smiles. It’s nice to see him like this, Villa thinks; it’s been a long time since he’s seen Silva’s post-match excitement.

“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says. “You started; tons of players sit out a match or two until they know the language better.”

Silva laughs, says, “The voice of reason; how could I have forgotten?” His hair is still damp from the shower and his chin is in his hand. Villa wants to touch him.

“I don’t know,” Villa says, and Silva doesn’t say anything after that. They just look at each other for a while, and Silva smiles at him and he pulls a face, and when Silva throws his head back to laugh, Villa stares at his neck and wonders when the last time was that he put a mark there with his teeth.

“I’m just glad that it went alright,” Silva says. “That it wasn’t a disaster.”

“Me too,” Villa says.

“Yeah.” Silva bites his lip. “Felt weird, though; kept looking for you.”

 _I’m right here,_ Villa wants to say. Instead, he says, “I bet I’ll keep looking for you, too.”

Silva smiles.

 

The next day at practice, Pep wants to work on man-up situations—two defense against three offense. They split up into lines and the teams switch around each run, sometimes Andrés and Villa and Bojan, or Villa and Pedro and Javier; whoever happens to be there. Victor saves a lot of them, the defense working well together; Villa recognizes that a lot of this is for him, for him to see how and why Barcelona works.

And then—and then the team is Pedro and Leo and Villa, and it’s just instantaneous, fast passes and perfect crosses and goal, goal, goal.

“Fuck!” Victor yells, and then he says, “Thank God you’re on my team.”

Pep claps and tells them to run it again, and Villa thinks, _This is going to be a good season._ No one will be able to catch them.

Leo slings an arm around his shoulders as they head inside to the stationary bikes.

“You and me versus the world,” Leo says, and he puts his hand out in front of them like he’s imagining something there.

“Hey, thanks,” Pedro says. “I feel really welcomed right now.”

Leo laughs and makes the hand-gesture again, saying, “You and me and Pedro versus the world.”

“Much better,” Pedro says, and then Dani hollers out for him and so he stops to wait. Leo and Villa keep walking.

“You know, you’re different than I expected,” Villa says, and he immediately wants to take it back. _Different_ than he _expected_? Jesus Christ, he’s not a girl sitting around, day-dreaming about what Lionel Messi is like in his off time.

“Yeah,” Leo says. “But I only ever saw you filming advertisements and stuff. You have to be serious there.” And that, Villa supposes, is true. He thought Leo would be serious all the time, constantly weighed down by the pressure of what people expect him to be, but that’s not exactly how he is. He’s louder, goofier.

“I guess,” Villa says.

“You know,” Leo says. “You do the same, even if you don’t notice it. All the other times I met you, you never smiled. They guys had to promise me that you knew how.”

“Fuck you,” Villa says, and he flashes a huge, cheesy smiles at Leo.

“Beautiful,” Leo deadpans. “Just stunning. But seriously; with Barcelona, I’m still Messi, but—they all know me. I can be Leo the person _and_ Messi the footballer. No one cares if I joke around from time to time.”

“Plus,” Villa says, “I bet they have a high tolerance for that kind of shit, what with Gerard and all.”

“You don’t even know,” Leo says. “And paired with Dani and Puyi? This team has to have the patience of a saint.”

“Well, shit,” Villa says. “Then I’m screwed.”

Leo just laughs.

 

When his first match rolls around, Villa’s actually nervous. And it’s so fucking stupid, he knows that, because he’s confident in his skills and he’s confident in his team, but it’s not his crest and it’s not fans, and so he’s nervous.

He steps out onto the pitch at El Sardinero and as they line up, Leo squeezes his elbow as if to tell Villa that everything’s alright because Barcelona will dominate. They kick-off and Villa watches as Leo scores three minutes later and he thinks, _What the fuck am I worried about?_ Because this is Barcelona and he is playing center forward with Leo on his left and Andrés on his right and what could be better than that?

Andrés scores in the thirty-third minute and then Maxwell gives away a penalty—missed, saved by Victor, of course—and this is not Valencia, but it’s fun to be with his friends from La Roja all the time. Villa keeps at it, hopes for a chance to score because nothing could possibly be better than scoring in his debut match, and then—

It’s a perfect cross, curling and coming right at him from where Dani stands at the opposite sideline. And Villa’s all alone, almost, no one around him, and he leans back and fires a header at the keeper and it goes in. It goes in so cleanly and Villa can’t even believe it, how perfect it was, and he goes running at Dani, pointing two fingers at the sky. Dani lifts him up in a hug and Pedro’s right next to him, and Villa grabs Andrés by the back of his head to pull him into the group. He feels hands in his hair and he lowers his head to hide his smile, and he feels Leo mold himself to his back when he gets there, and Villa thinks, _This isn’t Valencia, but I fit._

 

Pep pulls him close with a hand around his shoulders as they walk into the tunnel after the match.

“Good match, David,” he says. “I’m glad we have you.”

“Thanks,” David says, and they head into the locker room. “I’m glad to be here.”

When he gets through the door, everyone starts clapping, and Villa doesn’t know if they’re making fun of him for something or not.

“Here he is!” Gerard yells. “He scored on his debut!”

“The man!” Puyi says.

“The myth!” Gerard again, and Villa rolls his eyes.

“The legend—”

“Davi—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says, although he’s smiling like an idiot. They all cat call as he heads to his locker to grab his stuff—his towel and his flip-flops—and just happens to get there in time to notice that his phone is vibrating.

“Hello?” he says, and he needs to cover his other ear to hear over the noise in the locker room.

“Villa?” Silva asks. “I didn’t think you’d pick up; I was going to leave a message.”

“Everything alright?” Villa asks, because that’s kind of unusual.

“Yeah, yeah, I just—I saw your goal. Really, really nice,” Silva says.

Villa laughs a little because he’s in a good mood and says, “Thanks. I’m good at what I do; what can I say?”

Silva laughs and says something in response, but Villa can’t hear over the noise of his teammates.

“What?” Villa asks. “I can’t hear you.”

“Tell your girlfriend you’ll call her back!” Victor yells, and that’s followed by Xavi asking, “You have a girlfriend?”

Villa ignores them both. Silva says something else and Villa still can’t hear him.

“Hey, Silva,” Villa says, “can I call you back later?” He doesn’t hear any response, but he says, “Alright, bye,” and hangs up anyways.

“Ohh!” Gerard says. “It was Silva!” He slings and arm around Villa’s shoulders and points at Victor and all the other people being loud around them. “You’re doomed!”

“What the fuck?” Villa asks, because he doesn’t know what Gerard’s talking about. “Why?”

Gerard stares at him for a second and then says, “Everyone knows that you and Silva share some weird Valencia bond where you read each other’s minds and interruption of conversation is punishable by death.”

“I didn’t know that,” Dani hollers from across the locker room.

“No one likes you,” Gerard yells back, but doesn’t stop looking at Villa.

“It’s really not a big deal,” Villa says. He starts to head towards the showers but then stops to turn around and snap his towel at Gerard’s legs. Gerard yelps and Villa sprints away as fast as he can in his shower shoes.

 

Silva seems surprised when Villa actually calls him back.

“I just thought you’d be out celebrating or something,” Silva says.

“Nah,” Villa tells him. “Gerard was going out with Puyi but…”

“I get it,” Silva says. “You’re an old man and you need your rest.”

“Fuck you, I’m young and beautiful,” Villa says, and Silva laughs.

“Must’ve just slipped my mind.”

Villa likes Silva’s laugh. It’s such a fucking lame thing to like, but he like it. It makes Villa wish Silva was there so they could celebrate his goal by fucking lazily on the couch and watching movies together.

“Why do you have to be in Manchester?” Villa asks. “I’m so fucking horny right now.”

“Hazard of the job, I guess,” Silva says. “But I believe in you; you’ll work it out.”

“In more ways than one,” Villa grumbles, and Silva just laughs and laughs.

 

The next few days are hard; Villa gets called-up for the friendly against Argentina and knowing that he gets to see Silva in less than a week puts an itch under his skin and makes it difficult for him to focus.

“I’m not going to lie,” Dani says, “I’m a little offended you’re this eager to get away from me. I mean, with everyone else, I’m used to it; but you? Et tu, David?” Villa just slaps him lightly in the face and then Pep blows his whistle and he takes off for sprints.

He thinks it’ll be nice to see Silva again, even though it’s not been all that long, only a month or so tops. But still, after being together for almost four years at Valencia, a month is a long time. He’s not used to playing without Silva, even if it’s just practice, because at club or national level, Silva was always just there. So that will be nice.

“David!” Pep yells, and it shakes Villa out of his thoughts. He looks at Pep and Pep’s got his arms spread wide and a look on his face like, _What are you doing?_ Villa looks around and everyone else is heading into the gym; he shakes his head and jogs after them.

“Sorry!” he yells to Pep, and Pep just laughs, rolls his eyes.

 

When Villa finally gets to see Silva again—as in, in real life, in the flesh, up close and personal—they’re in the airport and so Villa can’t do what he really wants to do. But he hugs Silva, hard and with both arms, and he thinks he feels Silva press a kiss into his neck.

Everyone says hi to everyone else, and Silva is quiet and reserved, just like he always is when he’s not on the pitch and not alone with just Villa.

Raúl comes and says hi, and he’s maybe the exception to Silva’s shy rule, because Silva hugs him and smiles wide and says, “Hey, Raúl. It’s been ages.”

“Tell me about it,” Raúl says, and then he looks back and forth between Villa and Silva. “I can’t believe you guys aren’t at Valencia anymore.” He shoots a look at Villa and then rolls his eyes. “Barcelona; you’re the enemy now!”

Villa tells him to shut up, and Silva laughs.

They sit together on the plane, too, and it’s real nice, just being together again and shooting the shit about everything and nothing at all.

Villa looks at the emergency landing card and asks, “What would you do if you got on the plane and someone had switched the real cards out with the ones from Fight Club?”

“The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club,” Silva says.

“Fuck off,” Villa laughs.

“Seriously, though,” Silva says, “I wouldn’t even notice.”

“I think I would,” Villa says. “I check these cards like six times a flight.”

“I know,” Silva says. He nudges Villa’s side and says, “It almost makes me nervous, watching you be nervous.”

“I’m not fucking _nervous_ ,” Villa says.

“Okay.”

 

They have practice when they land and it’s just like old times, being back with La Roja and with Silva and everything. It’s not been long at all, and so everyone’s still sort of in the pattern of how they all play together. They look good, strong, and after practice, Villa showers even though most of his team skips theirs in order to go eat earlier.

“You guys are fucking disgusting,” he says, but Silva just laughs and Gerard flicks him off.

“I’ll shower with you, David,” Pepe says, and he waggles his eyebrows. Villa just punches him in the arm.

He gets dressed and heads out the door before Pepe even steps out of the shower, and then he heads to the dining room. There’s only one open chair left—between Silva and Cesc—and Ramos is ahead of him, walking towards the table, and so he thinks, _Fuck._

But then Ramos doesn’t take the open chair; he leaves it and pulls a free chair up to the corner of their table. Villa sits down between Silva and Cesc, and he’s not sure if people actually know about him and Silva, but things like this make him think that they do. It’s not a _secret,_ especially not from their friends, but Villa is surprisingly private and Silva is like a lockbox when it comes to his personal life, and so Villa’s never exactly sure.

Silva looks at him and smiles, and Villa puts his hand on Silva’s knee underneath the table.

 

At the end of the day, Del Bosque gives them a few hours of free time and then tells them that they better shut the lights out at a decent hour. Villa somehow manages to convince Alvaro to switch with him so he can room with Silva, and even though Iker makes a face at him for that, Villa doesn’t switch back.

They lie together in one bed and watch tv for a while, some news and some telenovela, but eventually the tv is forgotten because they are together, in one bed, and Silva’s skin is warm next to Villa’s own.

They kiss for a while—just kiss, and Villa’s missed it, missed the way Silva’s mouth felt and how Silva knows exactly when to pull back and when to use more tongue and when to bite down on Villa’s lower lip. And Villa thinks that they’re on the same page—that they’re both building up to getting off—but when he makes the move to palm Silva’s cock, Silva grabs his wrist and stops him.

“No sex before a match,” he says. “Iker even reminded everyone.” He keeps kissing Villa but Villa groans and pulls away.

“Yeah, but he was referring to, like, wives and hookers,” Villa says, pulling away. “So we’re fine.”

And Villa thinks that maybe Silva’s just doing it to mess with him, but either way, he says, “No sex, Villa.”

“Alright,” Villa says. “A handjob, then.” And he says it because Silva is right there, in bed with him, and they haven’t seen each other in ages, it seems, and because Villa is dying to touch every inch of Silva’s skin, to see again how his face looks when he comes.

Silva smiles and right then and says, “No sex.”

“It’s a fucking handjob!” Villa says, and he really can’t believe it. They haven’t seen each other in _weeks._ “Since when did you become a Catholic school nun?”

Silva makes a face like he’s thinking it over and then he says, “Just a handjob?”

“Not _just_ a handjob,” Villa says. “A handjob from _me._ ”

“Oh, well then, how can I say no?” Silva says with a huge smile, and Villa gets it now. Silva was messing with him.

“Fuck you,” he says.

“I thought we just agreed on a handjob?” Silva laughs, but it turns into a different noise completely when Villa reaches into Silva’s boxers and wraps his fingers around Silva’s cock.

Silva hisses in a breath and Villa says, “Still funny to you?” He doesn’t get an answer, but Silva’s hips stutter into Villa’s hand and Villa takes that as a victory.

 

When the match comes around, Villa feels weird about the fact that it’s weird to have Leo on the opposite team. It’s even weirder that Spain doesn’t play well, because Villa’s kind of gotten used to winning, but they rest some of their usual starters and so maybe it’s not all that shocking.

Silva’s there, though; there to pass and set up plays and tell Villa not to worry about it when he misses a shot. They’re subbed out too soon, it feels like—both of them at the forty-seventh, barely into the second half—and they sit on the bench, wishing they were back out on the pitch.

“That was too short,” Silva says, and Villa just grunts in agreement. “I don’t want to have to wait until the next friendly.”

Villa doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t want to wait that long, either, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

 

They lose 4-1. It sucks, the beating that they get, and it sucks having to say goodbye again so soon, but that’s how it goes. In their hotel room, Villa hugs Silva hard and kisses him on the mouth, and Silva says, “This is harder than I thought it would be.” One weekend—one match—is not enough.

They head to the lobby and file onto the team bus and then onto the plane, and they sit there together in silence, the armrest pushed up and the lengths of their arms pressed together. No one bothers them.

“I’ll call you when I’m finally home,” Villa says. They both have connecting flights once they land back in Madrid.

“Okay,” Silva says. “Don’t forget your sunglasses on the plane like you always do.”

“I won’t.”

Villa presses their thighs together.

 

When Barcelona plays the Herculés match, Villa’s not entirely sure what happens. They play alright, even though they don’t start with Xavi or Pedro or Dani, but nothing works for them. He doesn’t get it. He understands—he’s not a fucking moron—that Pep sat a lot of the usual starters out because of the Panathinaikos match in a few days, but it’s _Herculés_ ; it shouldn’t matter.

The locker room is dead silent after the match, and Villa is exhausted. He showers and gets dressed and thinks, _What the fuck? What the fuck?_ And it’s not that he can’t handle losing, because he can, but they are Barcelona and this is Herculés and what else is there for him to say? They wouldn’t have lost like this at Valencia, not when everyone was still there.

He shoulders his bag and he wants to say something— _Sorry,_ maybe—because everyone keeps talking about how important a signing he was and how big a player he is, and maybe he should have done something more than he did. But he doesn’t apologize, doesn’t say anything, just leaves and doesn’t look back, because he didn’t let his club down; he and his club let down everyone else, and Villa is fucking fuming.

 

Villa gets home and he’s still in a terrible mood. They just lost—to fucking _Herculés_ —and his hip hurts and Silva isn’t there when he gets home, and he’s just wound so tight. He kicks off his shoes at the door and then heads to the laundry room to strip off his shirt and pants, and then he whips out his phone, calls Silva as he paces his house in just his boxer briefs.

“I saw,” Silva says first thing, no _hello_ or anything like that.

“Such bullshit,” Villa snaps, although he’s not mad at Silva. “Such fucking bullshit. I thought that Barcelona meant I didn’t have to deal with this type of complete and utter _embarrassment._ ”

“Hey,” Silva says, because he’s the rational one; the calm one. “It wasn’t embarrassing. Herculés played well and you guys didn’t. There’s nothing else to it. You didn’t make any embarrassing mistakes; they just outplayed you, and that’s football.”

“Fuck,” Villa says, but this time it’s resigned instead of angry. “I know, I just—wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know,” Silva says.

“And I got fucking destroyed on the pitch today, too,” Villa says. “My hip hurts like a bitch.”

Villa walks into his room and stands in front of his mirror that’s above his dresser, pulling his boxer briefs down at the hip just low enough so that he can see the mark.

“Is it bad?” Silva asks.

“Not really,” Villa says. “It’s just a massive bruise. Bigger than the one you got at the Euros.”

“I wish I was there,” Silva says. “I’d kiss it better.”

Villa laughs a little, says, “Would you?”

“No,” Silva says, and something in his voice changes, gets lower. “I wouldn’t. But I’d hold your hips down as I blew you, press my thumb against your bruise.”

And that—Villa forgets, forgets all the time how Silva can be because Silva’s not like this often. And it’s like he rediscovers what Silva’s like when he’s not shy—falls in love with him again and again—every time Silva does something like this, something for Villa and Villa only. His breath hitches.

“I wouldn’t want to,” Silva says. “I don’t like hurting you, but I know it gets you off, and so I would.”

“Fuck, Silva,” Villa says. He watches himself in the mirror as he runs his free hand over his own torso.

“I’d bite your skin, too. Leave marks so red that they’d bruise over and you’d have them for weeks,” Silva says, and Villa wedges his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he shoves his briefs down over his hips. “And everyone would know that you’re taken, that you’re _mine._ Would you like that, Guaje?”

“Fuck,” Villa says, and it seems like that’s all he can ever say. He wraps his fingers around his cock, and his hips immediately buck a little into his hand; it feels like ages since he last heard Silva’s voice like this. “Yes, Silva. Fuck.”

“We would,” Silva says, “but only when you’re really begging for it. When you really need it.”

And Villa hears it then, hears the way Silva’s breathing hard, and he can picture it in his head, Silva laid out on his bed, his shirt pushed up to his armpits and his phone wedged between his ear and his pillow as he touches himself, his chest and his hips and the front of his thighs. He can picture Silva’s face, too, the way he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip because he doesn’t like making a lot of noise when he comes. Villa can picture it all in his head, and suddenly there are things that he wants to do to Silva that he’s never even thought of before.

“Fuck,” Villa says, and he watches himself in the mirror, but it’s not as sexy as if Silva was there with him. “I wish you were here touching me.”

“What else do you wish I was doing?” Silva asks.

“I don’t know,” Villa says. “Anything. Fuck, Silva, anything.”

“I’d want to suck your cock,” Silva says, and it’s the fact that Silva says _cock_ just as much as it is the idea of Silva sucking him off that has him making a noise in the back of his throat. “God, I miss that. Out of all the things, I didn’t think—but I do. I miss sucking you off, Guaje; the taste of you in my mouth.”

“You look so good on your knees, too,” Villa says, and he leans forward, rests one of his forearms on his dresser and drops his head down. He twists his hand and squeezes his fingers tighter, and he tries but he can’t hold back the groan that leaves his lips. The sound of skin on skin is so loud that he wonders if Silva can hear it through the phone. “The way you just let me fuck your mouth and you don’t even _care._ ”

“I’d let you do more than that, if you wanted,” Silva says. “I’d let you do whatever you wanted to me.”

“I want to—” Villa says, but he cuts himself off. His hips are moving fast now and he’s so close—so fucking close—and he trusts Silva with his life, but he still can’t tell Silva what he wants because they’ve never done that and never talked about it and he’s never even realized that he wanted it until just now, until he thought about the way Silva’s face looks when they fuck, and can’t—

“What do you want, Villa?” Silva asks. “Just tell me what you—” he makes a noise and Villa thinks he’s going to come so soon, so soon. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Fuck,” Villa says, and then he lets it all out in a rush. “I want to come on your face because you’re mine and because I can.”

There’s silence for a second and Villa just listens to the way Silva’s breath hitches, and then Silva says, “I’d let you.”

Villa sees stars.

 

Practice goes well after that, even though Barcelona just lost to Herculés. Pep doesn’t seem to think that the score line is any indication of how well the team plays, and while Villa agrees with him, he still thinks that they must have been doing something wrong to have lost in the first place. Then again, Villa’s not the manager, so what does he know?

They play foot volley when they get back, and Villa loves that because it’s helpful but not serious. He pairs up with Sergio, and Xavi and Andrés are on the other side of the net; at first they start by showing off, doing tricks that they’re sure will impress the others, but as time goes on, they end up focusing on the score and who is winning.

It’s interesting, too, getting to see how Xavi and Andrés talk without talking; it’s like a midfield hive mind or something, Villa thinks, and he never gets tired of seeing it. And he’s not; he’s not _tired_ of seeing it, just like he’s not _tired_ of playing for Barcelona, but the excitement of being part of a squad that made up of most of his national team friends has worn off. There are some times—most times— that he just misses Valencia, misses Pablo and Mata and Alexis and the roar of the Mestalla around him.

 

He hangs out with Leo after practice and they play some FIFA.

“Argentina vs. Spain,” Leo says, and he hands Villa a controller. Villa groans.

“Oh my God, you gloating fuck,” Villa says to him, but he talks the controller anyways and throws his body down onto Leo’s couch.

“Gloating?” Leo asks, and he makes this face like he can’t believe what he just heard. “I’m just giving you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“Sure,” Villa says, and then he turns to the screen. He waits a while before speaking again, waits until their game is set up before saying, “But it’s not like I mind you being an asshole.”

“Why?” Leo asks, and he sounds wary. Villa can see out of the corner of his eye that his jaw is slack and his eyes are wide as he plays.

“Did Argentina even qualify for the World Cup? I don’t think I saw you,” Villa says, and Leo starts yelling.

“Oh!” he says. “Oh, that was low!”

“No, I feel bad for you!” Villa says. “I’m just saying I feel bad!”

Leo shakes his head and says, “That was uncalled for.”

Villa just laughs.

 

He recognizes that it’s been building up inside him for a while, but it only hits him when he's standing in the tunnel at Camp Nou about to play Sporting Gijon; he doesn’t know why, but suddenly he realizes that they lost their home opener to Herculés—a newly-promoted team—and so now, tonight, they have no other choice but to win, to beat his hometown team into the ground in an effort to prove their worth. They don't have any other option. And the thought is just so suffocating, almost, because before he had been on the other side, the fighting side, the side that wanted to win but wasn't necessarily always expected to.

He looks around him, at Puyi and Xavi and Dani, and they're easy, relaxed, _No big deal, it's just Sporting Gijon._ But it is, it _is_ a big deal and they don't even realize that, have become so accustomed to it all. It's not just Sporting Gijon; it's Barcelona—they're _Barcelona_ —and they have to win, absolutely have to, no other option but leaving it all out there on the pitch for the _blaugrana_.

He turns and looks at Leo, who's right behind him, still not suited up because of his ankle injury from the Atlético match. Leo smiles easily, and Villa knows that he's trying to say something with the gesture, but Villa has no fucking clue what. Because Leo—Leo is Leo; he's on a completely different plane of existence from everyone else, and Barcelona is all he's ever known, all he _will_ ever know, and everything he does is part of a give-and-take, a dance with the club that no one else knows the steps to. Villa's not like that; he can't compare himself to people like that, like Leo and Xavi and Sergio and Andrés and Victor and everyone else that's not him and that loves this club, deep in their bones.

And suddenly, as he takes the hand of the child next to him and walks out onto the pitch, it hits him: Maybe he didn't make the right choice in coming to Barcelona. Yes, Barcelona is the best, but he's not so sure Barcelona is for him. It wasn't his dream to be here all along; he wanted to stay in Valencia, win La Liga and the Copa del Rey and the Champions League with Valencia, with _Silva_ , however unlikely that may have been. That was what he wanted, and now he's here, under so much pressure, and the only person he wants to talk to is miles away, wearing sky blue.

It's only after he thinks that that Villa realizes what this match really means; Sporting Gijon is his hometown club, he knows that, has been talking about that to the media for days. Fuck, Sporting Gijon is his _hometown club_ and he's sitting there thinking about Barcelona and Valencia like they were the only clubs that ever mattered to him. And he wants to say something to them, something like, _I've left Sporting but it's still my club,_ only not in those words, but he doesn't know how to and doesn't get the chance to. The ref blows the whistle and he's off, running down the pitch to bring glory to Barcelona because that's what they pay him to do.

 

Despite his internal hang-ups, the match goes well; he plays well. They're not _hurting_ without Leo—he's not the only person on the squad—but his absence is noticeable and Villa wonders what Leo's thinking from up in the stands. And even though the crest weighs heavy on him, even though it's not his, Villa forgets about everything that's been on his mind, one minute at a time, with each tap of the football at his feet. He feels light on the pitch, lighter than air, and happy.

He scores in the forty-ninth minute after Dani passes him a through-ball that he slots passed the keeper. Villa doesn't take off, doesn't go running crazy because Sporting Gijon is his team, let him play football when he was young, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel good to score; it does. It feels really fucking great, after all that running and working and missing and missing and missing. He smiles and his teammates are there, Xavi and Pedro and Andrés, their hands on his skin and in his hair, Bojan's arms wrapped around him from behind.

"First Barça home goal of the season, Guaje," Andrés says, and Villa smiles even wider.

It feels good to be good; he just wishes it was with Valencia.

 

And yet, despite having a good match, Villa drives home irritated and calls Silva late that night when he’s lying in bed and unable to fall asleep.

“Hey,” Silva says, and he sounds happy to be hearing from Villa. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Villa says, and then there’s a silence that Silva obviously expects him to fill. He doesn’t.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Villa snaps.

“Alright,” Silva says. “Well, I’m just watching some tv; practice was hard today.”

“Yeah?” Villa asks. “And how’s _Manchester_?” And he says it like that—like, _Manchester_ —because he hates Manchester and everything that Manchester is and stands for and has.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, fuck,” Villa says. “Why does there have to be something wrong for me to call you?”

“There doesn’t,” Silva says.

“Then why do you keep insisting that there is?”

“Come on, Villa, don’t be like this,” Silva says, and he sounds so tired. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Villa snaps, but he does and he’s being unfair, and Silva is in the exact same spot he is, only he’s in a different fucking country. Suddenly, it feels like he deflates and instead of agitated, he just feels tired. “It’s kind of like—Barcelona. It’s kind of like a cult. You come in and they welcome you and then just like that, you’re supposed to feel everything just as much as they do, love Barcelona just as much as they do.”

“And do you?” Silva asks. “Love Barcelona like them?”

“No,” Villa says. “And I don’t think I ever will.”

“That’s okay,” Silva tells him, and it’s strange how much better that makes him feel. “I don’t think I’ll ever love City like that, either.”

And then they just sit on the phone and breathe together, and Villa thinks they’re pretty fucking sad, the two of them. He thinks that maybe if he’d have known Silva wasn’t going to stay in La Liga, that he’d have left, too. Because Barcelona’s great and playing with Leo is great, but it’s still not Valencia and Leo’s still not Silva. And Villa’s not _unhappy,_ but he’s not exactly happy, either, because he’s a greedy fuck who has everything in the world and still wants more, and if he can’t have it at Valencia and he can’t have it at Barcelona, then what does it matter where he is?

“Hey, Villa?” Silva says.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.”

They breathe.

 

He plays FIFA 11 on Xbox LIVE with Alexis every once in a while; it’s fun, kind of like old times, and they shoot the shit. Villa has him on speakerphone as they play. The score’s 3-2 to Villa, but Villa still wants to crush him

“Quit it with this keep-away bullshit and just play,” Alexis says.

“Actually,” Villa tells him, “it’s called _tiki taka._ You’ll get it when you’re older.”

“I get it _now_ ,” Alexis says, and Villa scores. “Shit. I want to punch you in the mouth.”

“Well, you’ll get to, soon,” Villa says. “We play you guys in what? Two weeks?”

“Two short weeks,” Alexis says. “You are going down.”

“Alright,” Villa says.

“Hey, I’m serious.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Villa says, and the best part is that it just makes Alexis start shouting about the Sevilla line-up and lose the football in the game. Villa scores again; it’s all good.

 

It all turns right back around, and the next day, Villa has a shit couple of hours. There’s a massive amount of traffic when he goes out and he gets into a fender bender; the guy who hits him focuses more on the fact that he’s talking to David Villa than the fact that they were in a car accident, and asks for an autograph. When he finally gets to where he wants to be—some store downtown that sells a brand of sunglasses that he likes—he realizes that his credit card is not in his wallet and that he has no idea where it could be. Some teenage girls take pictures of him with their camera phones as he leaves and then, almost as if it was fate’s way of mocking him or some shit, he drops his phone and it breaks; the screen cracks right down the middle. He didn’t think phones could do that just by being dropped, and he spends the next hour at the store trying to get a new phone the he has to use cash to pay for.

When he’s back home by himself with a working phone, the first thing Villa does is text Silva.

 _I can’t deal with this fucking city anymore_ , he says. _Come back to Spain._ He gets a response almost immediately.

 _I wish I could,_ Silva says.

Villa flops onto the couch and notices that his credit card is sitting on the coffee table; he has no clue how it got there.

 

A couple of days later, Villa’s drinking orange juice and debating the importance of reading the newspaper before practice when the doorbell rings. It’s seven forty-five in the morning and he’s not expecting anybody; when he opens the door, there’s a mail man holding a package.

“David Villa?” he asks, and he holds out a pen and a clipboard for him to sign. He looks as tired as Villa feels, and doesn’t seem to give a shit who Villa is.

“Uh, yeah,” Villa says, and he takes the pen, signs for his package.

“Have a nice day,” the guy says, and then he heads back to his truck, leaving Villa standing in his doorway with a mystery package from—he checks the return label—Silva.

He puts the package down on his kitchen table and roots around in a drawer for some scissors, and then he struggles to get through the massive amounts of tape that Silva has wrapped around the box. When he finally does, Styrofoam peanuts get everywhere.

“Damn it,” Villa says to himself, and he kicks the peanuts on the floor out of the way so he doesn’t step on them and doesn’t have to deal with them. He reaches into the box only to come out with a second box; a shoebox.

There’s a note taped to the top:

_Saw these and thought of you. Couldn’t not buy them._

And inside—cheetah print sneakers. They are the most hideous things the he has ever seen and he loves the fuck out of them. He wears them to practice and feels like hot shit.

 

Gerard laughs at him in the locker room.

“What the fuck are those, oh my god,” he says. “No, seriously, what are those?”

“A _gift_ ,” Villa says. “From _God_ to _humanity_.”

“No,” Gerard says, and he laughs, fumbles in his pocket for his phone. “A gift from me to the Twitter universe; take them off.”

“What? No, go fuck yourself.”

“Seriously,” Gerard says. “I’ve never needed anything more in my life, come on.”

“Fine, Jesus,” Villa says, and he takes off his shoes. Gerard lines them up on the floor and takes a picture of them, then fiddles around on his phone for a second.

“Look,” he says. “I didn’t even mention they were yours.”

Villa looks at Gerard’s phone and the tweet says, _Whose shoes are these?_

“You’re a bigger asshole than I thought,” Villa says as he puts his shoes back on. “I’m actually kind of proud.”

“Oh, come on,” Gerard says. “It’s a Twitter mystery! People love those!”

And then, from the hallway, Dani yells, “Geri! Whose shoes are those? I fucking want a pair!”

Villa feels nothing but vindication.

 

The week continues to just get crazier and more interesting. Gerard and Dani get into some argument over an anime show that results in Dani declaring that Gerard is dead to him off the pitch, Puyi comes to practice with his hair in a ponytail, and Eto’o drops by randomly to see his former club.

Later, when he thinks everything dies down, Pep says to him, “It’s a good think you transferred here, you know? Leo and I were seriously outnumbered.”

“What do you mean?” Villa asks.

Pep points to something over his shoulder, and when he turns around, he can see Gerard and Bojan wrestling, and Puyi miraculously still standing even though Dani is on his back. Victor is sprinting from the goal line to join in.

“This is like my first youth team,” Villa says, and Pep laughs, claps him on the back.

 

Silva calls him after his match against Arsenal.

“Did you watch?” he asks, and right off the bat, Villa can tell he’s in a bad mood.

“No,” Villa tells him, and he’s honest about it. He didn’t watch it, didn’t have time to.

“Good,” Silva says. “It was a mess.”

Villa throws himself down on his couch and turns on the first sports news program he can find, the volume turned down low. They go through all the matches and Villa doesn’t have to wait long for them to talk about the EPL.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Villa says.

“I thought you said you didn’t watch it.”

“I didn’t,” Villa tells him. “I’m looking at the highlights right now. You played fine, it looks.”

“Yes,” Silva stresses, “but the _team_ didn’t.”

“Well, I mean, Barcelona doesn’t always—”

“Stop,” Silva cuts him off. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear about Barcelona.”

“What?” Villa asks. “Why? I was just saying that sometimes we—”

“Look, I recognize that you’re trying to help,” Silva says, “but you’re really just making everything worse.”

And Villa knows that’s his cue to shut up, to stop talking, but he has to know what’s wrong and so he says, “I’m not even fucking _doing_ anything; I’m just telling you that everyone has those days.”

“I know,” Silva says, and Villa can tell that he’s trying to keep from snapping, from yelling. “But you keep talking about how you’re there and I’m here and I can’t deal with it right now.”

“Why?” Villa asks, because it’s gotten past the point where all he wanted to do was make Silva feel better. “None of that is anything new.”

“ _Because_ ,” Silva says, and his voice is quiet like always, but urgent, too. “Because I can’t—I’m worried that I can’t be what you need anymore, not all the way from Manchester. And it’s so hard because I try, because I _want_ to, but I made a mistake and I moved away, and that’s my fault and now I wish I hadn’t, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Bullshit,” Villa says, and he doesn’t even know what’s going on anymore, because he thought all of this was all about Arsenal, but it turns out none of it is, and he is caught completely and totally unprepared. “What do you think I need? I don’t _need_ you to be anything.”

“You do though,” Silva says, and he laughs, even though none of it is funny. “You need so much and you don’t even realize it, so I can’t even be mad at you for it. I want to be there for you, but you just pile it on me, everything, how mad you are that Valencia had debt, and how you hate that you had to sign for Barcelona and that I chose to leave— _especially_ that I chose to leave, always telling me to come back—and I’m _sorry_ , okay, I _am_ , but I did something for me, because I thought it would be better for _me_ , but all it did was hurt you.”

“It didn’t—”

“It _did_ ,” Silva cuts him off. “And you make me feel so guilty all the time and you don’t even realize it. I’m sorry that Barcelona’s not like Valencia was, but City isn’t either, okay? And you’re not helping things by just blaming me; it’s becoming too much and everything’s weighing down on me all the time, like there’s this weight in my chest, and I just—I can’t have you reminding me all the time that I made the wrong choice because I know; I _know_ that.”

And Villa thinks—Villa doesn’t know what to think. He can’t believe that Silva feels like that and that he didn’t tell him—didn’t fucking say a word—because they were a team and he should have, because Villa wants to be there for him more than he wants to be there for anyone else in the world.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Villa asks.

“You don’t listen,” Silva says, and that hits Villa like a ton of bricks. “I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Villa says after a pause, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and because maybe by saying that, Silva won’t be mad at him anymore.

“Don’t,” Silva tells him.

And Villa thinks—he has to make this better, somehow, because Silva’s the best fucking thing that ever happened to him, and he can’t have Silva thinking that maybe they’re better apart. And that’s so fucking—so _dependent_ , and Villa hates that, but it’s Silva and it’s him and it’s _them_ , and so Villa doesn’t care.

“I don’t think you did, though,” he says, and the hardest part about that is that it’s true.

“Did what?”

“Made the wrong decision. I don’t think you did. I’m just—fuck,” he says, because where are the fucking words to say what he wants to say? “I just wish that what was right for you and what was right for me were the same thing.”

Silva takes a long time to respond, almost too long, and Villa can hear him breathe and can hear him swallow hard before saying, “Yeah. Me too.”

“I’m coming to visit on Friday,” Villa says, and that’s news to him, too, because he didn’t know he was until he said it.

“Okay,” Silva says. “Okay, good.”

He sounds relieved and Villa feels better knowing that he’s not the only one having a hard time with everything.

 

By the time the plane lands, Villa is so anxious to see Silva again that he can’t believe he waited so long to visit. It’s fucking embarrassing how fast he jumps out of his seat and heads towards the baggage carousel, but when he’s there, when he hears Silva call out, “Guaje,” and when he turns around and sees Silva standing there in a shirt they bought from DSquared—it’s a relief. A relief from what, Villa doesn’t know, but it’s a relief.

Silva drives him home on the left side of the road and they talk about the plane ride and how badly Villa misses the sun even though he’s only been in Manchester for a half hour. It’s kind of a gross day out, clouds and a little bit of rain, but when he mentions that, Silva shrugs and says that he’s used to it.

They go to drop off Villa’s bags at the house before heading back out again, but the second they’re inside, Villa has him pushed up against the wall, his hands up Silva’s shirt. They end up fucking, Silva bent over the kitchen table, their hips moving together and their mouths saying things that don’t quite make sense. Villa has the fingers of one hand gripping hard at Silva’s hip, the other reaching around to Silva’s front as he looks at the way Silva’s head drops between his arms and the curve that adds to his spine.

They both come at about the same time—Villa first, although not by much—and when Silva turns around to look at him, sweaty and sated, Villa pushes his hair out of his eyes.

“Jesus,” he says. “If I’d have known it’d be like this, I’d have visited sooner.”

Silva laughs and smushes his nose into the side of Villa neck.

“Come on,” Silva says. “Let’s shower and then get something to eat.”

 

It’s a little weird at first, being out in England, because Villa doesn’t really speak English and only understands some of it. But it’s alright because Silva knows that and doesn’t really ever leave him hanging, waiting to know what’s going on or anything; and besides, it’s not exactly like Silva’s fluent at it, either.

They go get some fish and chips and Silva teaches him how to eat them properly while sitting outside of the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant.

“Adam gave me a huge lecture about it,” Silva says. “I didn’t understand most of it, but Carlos explained what I missed.”

“What, I can’t just eat it?” Villa looks at the little Styrofoam container in his hands and is immediately a little wary, even though everyone else seems to be enjoying theirs.

“Apparently not,” Silva says. “I don’t really know. But Adam basically said that you put malt vinegar on it and a little bit of salt, and that’s it.” Villa wrinkles his nose. “It’s good; I wouldn’t make you eat it if it wasn’t, Villa.”

Silva opens his box for him as they sit outside and pours a little bit of vinegar over their fish and chips. Villa sprinkles on some salt and then tries it, and Silva watches him for his reaction.

“Actually pretty good,” Villa says. “I like the vinegar.”

“Me too,” Silva says.

Someone comes up to them a bit later after that, a mother and her little daughter who is looking at Silva with wide eyes, like he hung the moon. She’s nervous—shy, maybe—and her mother ushers her forward.

The woman says something and although Villa doesn’t know the words, he understands. Silva smiles and nods—he’s surprisingly good at this, the autographs, for someone who’s so quiet—and hunches a little bit to smile down at the young girl; she can’t be older than five.

Silva signs a piece of paper for her and the girl stands there, completely silent and obviously freaking out. But then Silva smiles again and she blurts out, “I love you, David.” She says it the British way, with the stress on the first syllable. Silva gives her a hug and Villa thinks she might just die of happiness.

When they’re gone, Villa says, “I didn’t realize you were such a ladies’ man. Should I be jealous?”

Silva just knocks shoulders with him, smiles and looks down as he says, “Shut up.”

 

They don’t go out much else over the short time that Villa’s there; Silva says he feels bad about it because Villa flew all the way to England for one night and now he’s just sitting on a couch, but Villa says that he doesn’t give a shit what’s outside so long as Silva’s inside with him.

“I wish this was a free weekend for us,” Silva says. He and Villa both have Sunday matches, and Villa had to get permission to miss one day’s practice in order to come. There’s a movie on in the background, but instead of paying attention, he and Silva are lying together on the couch.

“Me too,” Villa says. “But hey, one night is better than no nights, and it’s not like the flight’s that bad.”

“Yeah, I know. Still, though.”

Villa props himself up on one elbow and kisses him then, with one hand in Silva’s hair. He doesn’t necessarily mean for it to go any further than that, but then Silva slides his hands under Villa’s shirt and, slowly, they undress each other.

The fuck on the couch, Silva pressed to Villa’s body from behind, the tv still on in the background. Silva touches Villa all over, his chest and his nipples, his cock and the front of his thighs. It’s good, relaxed and slow, and Villa pushes back against Silva, meeting him thrust for thrust. Silva kisses the back of Villa’s neck, scrapes his teeth bluntly across the soft skin behind Villa’s ears, and he says, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Villa doesn’t say it back because he’s not really used to saying things like that, but does say Silva’s name—that’s it, just _Silva_ —and Silva must get it because he picks up the pace of his hips, thrusts into Villa faster and more urgently than before.

Afterwards, they kiss lying naked on the couch. Villa turns around and presses his body against Silva’s from his chest to his toes, the come on Villa’s stomach making them stick together like glue.

“There’s come all over my couch,” Silva says, and he tugs on Villa’s lower lip with his teeth.

“I can clean it up,” Villa says, and then he jokes, “My mess, my problem, right?”

“No,” Silva says. “I can get it later. Besides, we only have a few more hours until you have to leave.”

They spend them together.

 

Villa goes back to Barcelona and back to practice. Pep has them do warm-ups and sprints, and then they focus on corner kicks and free kick plays from right outside the box; Villa thinks that’s good, that he could always use the practice.

During one of their breaks, he sits in the grass and drinks some water and watches Gerard and Bojan joke around a few yards away. He’s not sure what’s going on, but they’re play fighting, seeing who can slap the other person’s face the most without getting slapped back.

“Not fair,” Bojan says, and he dodges Gerard’s fingers. “You’re like twelve hundred meters taller than me.”

“Don’t blame me because genetics liked me more than they liked you,” Gerard says, and Bojan’s fingers catch his cheek.

“Oh, that’s it,” Bojan says. He stands up tall and starts singing a line from _El Cant del Barça_ at the top of his lungs, “ _Un crit valent!_ ” And then gives this weird war cry before launching himself at Gerard, who goes tumbling into the grass with him. Just as they start wrestling, Leo comes and sits next to Villa.

“Hey,” he says. “How’s it going?”

Villa shrugs, says, “Alright, I guess.”

“I figured, if the hickies on your neck were any indication,” Leo says, and he smiles wide. He’s joking around, doesn’t mean anything by it.

“Shut the fuck up,” Villa says, but he smiles back.

“You know,” Leo starts, “when I first started playing for the first squad, I was so nervous. It’s strange to see how everything’s changed so completely and yet not at all.”

“What do you mean?” Villa asks. The topic sort of came out of nowhere.

“I just—you had a lot of friends on the squad before you came here,” Leo says, and he makes these big hand gestures and looks out at the pitch instead of at Villa. “And you’re used to pressure, and so no one probably told you because—because how say something like that to David Villa, you know?”

“Something like what?”

“Something like—how we all feel it,” Leo says. “The pressure. How the Barça crest is heavy but makes you want to work to hold it up. We all feel it. I mean, maybe you don’t, but I feel it every day.” Villa doesn’t say anything, just nods, because it feels kind of like Leo’s reading his mind and just putting it all out there. “I still get nervous before matches, sometimes. Most times.”

Villa laughs a rush of air out of his nose and says, “You’re the best player in the world.”

“I know how I play,” Leo says. “Doesn’t stop me from sometimes wondering if I’ve earned it, the spot in Barcelona and all the attention and everything. But you know what I’ve realized? We’re all here for a reason. You know?”

“Yeah,” Villa says, but he didn’t know, not until just now, not until he heard what Leo had to say.

“Anyways, just ignore me,” Leo says. “I tend to over-think things.”

“No,” Villa says. “That was—I think the same things, too.”

“Okay,” Leo says, and he smiles so brilliantly. It’s strange because it makes Villa realize just how human Leo is, how he said those things but still worried about how Villa would take them. And Villa takes them really well; it turns out that he had needed to hear them more than he even knew.

He goes home and he just feels so happy, so relaxed, content with Barcelona and Manchester and life.

 

And maybe that talk did something, maybe it meant something to the both of them, but the next match comes and both Leo and Villa score a brace against Sevilla. And it’s strange because suddenly, running down the pitch covered in sweat and dirt and grass, Villa loves Barcelona. Really, truly loves Barcelona. He loves Camp Nou, and he loves the _blaugrana_ and his squad and his coach, and he loves the crest on his chest. The pressure, the weight—it’s all still there, but it’s lessened somehow by the roar of the crowd and Villa feels at home.

It’s such a relief.

Some reporters talk to him post-match, and they ask him all sorts of questions about the team and the ninety minutes he just played. It’s not something he really likes to do because he feels like he has to be a different person, well-spoken and polite, but he does it because it comes with the job.

“Real Madrid beat Herculés just moments before your match,” one says. “Did that affect the mindset of the team?”

“No,” Villa says. “Barcelona plays hard and plays to win, no matter how the other teams do.”

“You must be pleased with scoring a brace.”

“Yes,” Villa says. “Very pleased. I’m glad to help my team, and also just personally, it’s very satisfying. Maybe a hat-trick next time.” He laughs.

“Speaking of hat-tricks, Leo Messi almost scored a third. Is it any different playing with him now that you know him better, as compared to earlier in the season?”

“Sort of,” Villa says. He thinks of how Leo sorted out all of his emotional bullshit without even realizing it, and he smiles because he really owes Leo one. “Leo is just—he’s Messi, you know? I know him better now, and I would call him a good friend, and so on a personal level, it’s very different. But he’s just amazing, the things he can do with a football. I think he’s tremendous,” Villa says. “A tremendous footballer. I’m very lucky to be able to call him a teammate and a friend.”

The journalist looks like they’re about to ask another question, but then Dani shows up and slings an arm around Villa.

“Yo,” Dani says, and he flashes two fingers in a peace sign at the camera. And then he leaves.

Villa and the reporter are left standing there, and the reporter looks rather confused; Villa just laughs and shrugs.

 

He calls Silva the next morning because he didn't have time to after the match; most of the team went out to celebrate their win because they didn’t have morning practice the next day. And he's excited, so ready to just be able to tell Silva that he's happy at Barcelona, finally happy, but Silva doesn't pick up. He doesn't leave a message because Silva will see that he called anyway, and instead heads out the door to meet Victor and Andrés for brunch.

It’s a good day.

 

When he meets the guys at the café, they look tired as hell and are both drinking coffee.

“I got almost no sleep,” Victor says. “Spent last night on Andrés’s couch. It was pretty rough.”

“Rough?” Andrés asks. “You fell asleep on my leg and I had pins and needles for hours.”

Villa looks between the two of them and maybe he’s just jumping to conclusions because of how he and Silva are, and he says, “Um. What?”

“Two person FIFA tournament,” Andrés says, waving Villa’s comment away. “It got intense.”

“I won though,” Victor says, and he looks so fucking smug about it.

Andrés shakes his head and says, “Don’t listen to him. You know he’s terrible; you know he lost.”

“No!” Victor yells, and then he pulls a face once he realizes how loud he was being. “No, that’s bullshit. I won; for once, I actually, legitimately won.”

“But you’re fucking terrible at FIFA,” Villa points out, and Andrés barely holds back a laugh.

“What?” Victor says. “But I—no, seriously, for once—I hate you. I need more coffee.”

Villa and Andrés burst out into laugher

 

He calls Silva again the next day, on the way to practice, and Silva doesn't pick up again, which is weird to Villa. It's not that they have to talk every day-- it's nothing like that-- but it's not like Silva to lose his phone or not return calls or anything like that. Still, it's not all that unusual that they don't talk all the time, and so he doesn't worry.

He leaves a message.

"Hey, Silva," he says. "It's me. I just-- okay, I called you yesterday and you're probably busy, but I just wanted to say that I don't know if you saw the match or not, but basically-- fuck. It all makes sense now, you know? Like, Barcelona and Valencia are two different things, two completely different times in my life, and just because I love one doesn't mean I can't love the other. Does that make sense? Like, Sporting Gijon. I love Sporting to my fucking bones, you know that, but I love Valencia, too. And you know that. So why the fuck can't I also love Barcelona? I can; I just realized that. Fucking _finally_ , I know, but I finally realize that this is where I need to be and that I'll win trophies with Barcelona, and the guys are just— the only thing that could make it better would be if you were here. But you're happy there and I'm happy you're happy there, and I hope everything's going good on your end and I'll talk to you later, alright? Bye."

And he means it, means every word that he says; he's happy, and he's happy that Silva's happy, and everything is working out. It's almost like he worried for nothing, all those months ago when Silva told him that he wasn't signing for Real Madrid.

 

Villa’s still in a good mood the following day, and so he calls his mom to say hi and let her know that he’s still alive and eating well. Normally it’s a huge fucking hassle because she’s a worrier, but it’s been a while and he kind of owes her.

She asks about how Barcelona is treating him and when is a good time for her to visit, and then she fills him in on all the gossip and happenings of Tuilla. Really, for the most part, Villa just hums to show he’s listening every now and then.

“And how is David doing in Manchester?” she asks. She refuses to call him Silva. _I am not calling your boyfriend by his last name, David_ , she had said. Villa had just shrugged and let it go.

“Alright, I think. I went to visit him last weekend,” Villa says.

“That’s good,” she says. “He’s such a sweet boy; I worry about him.”

Villa doesn’t say, _Me too._

 

Silva calls him a few days later and wakes him up in the middle of the night. There’s only an hour’s time difference between Manchester and Barcelona, and Silva’s never called this late before, so Villa’s mind races with _what if_ s.

“Silva?” he says when he picks up, and his voice is rough, thick with sleep. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Silva says, but he doesn’t sound fine at all. “I’ve just been thinking—”

“Fuck, Silva, it’s two in the morning,” Villa says.

“—and I don’t mind if there’s other people.”

And Villa—Villa stops at that one. Silva doesn’t mind if there are other people. Well, there are no other people. Villa doesn’t _want_ other people; he just wants Silva.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, why kill ourselves over something if it’s not working out?” Silva asks. His voice is low, steady, and Villa is anything but calm. “It’s okay if we’re not it for each other. It’s alright.”

“It's not alright,” he says.

“If you’re happy, and if I’m happy—that’s really all that matters,” Silva says. “You’ll always be my best friend.”

“It’s not fucking—it’s _not alright_ ,” Villa tries to protest again, but he’s so floored, so taken by surprise—he didn’t see this coming, he thought things were fine between them—that the protest sounds halfhearted to his own hears. It’s not halfhearted; Villa’s never meant anything more in his life.

“Hey, it’ll be fine. Really,” Silva says. “Trust me on this one, Guaje.”

And Villa wants to, he really wants to, but he just… can’t. He hangs up the phone and stares at the ceiling. He has practice tomorrow.

 

Villa goes to practice the next day even though he doesn’t have the energy. He stretches by himself, and he snaps at Andrés for offering to help and at Sergio for being too loud and at Jeffrén for being too quiet and at Victor for blocking all of his shots. After that, they all seem to pick up on the fact that Villa’s in a bad fucking mood.

They scrimmage and Villa tries to focus on the match, except it’s like his feet have forgotten how to work. He trips when Dani crosses a ball to him inside the box, and later, when there’s no one between him and the goal besides Victor, Villa shoots wide left, a mile wide.

“Fuck!” he yells at the sky.

“Hey,” Xavi says. “It’s alright; it’s just a scrimmage.”

“It’s not _fucking_ alright,” Villa says. He turns away and doesn’t let Xavi get another word in.

 

Villa gets home and he’s just—he’s so fucking mad; mad and confused and, not that he’d ever admit it, pretty fucking hurt, too. He sits on his couch and because he’s a huge masochist, he watches all the interviews of Silva that he has bookmarked on his computer, and when he’s done with those, he searches Google for a new one.

“How does it compare, going from playing with David Villa at the Mestalla to playing with Carlos Tévez, here in Manchester?” the interviewer asks, and Silva smiles so wide that it Villa has to clench his fists.

“Carlos is a great striker, one of the best I’ve played with,” Silva says, and Villa thinks, _Carlos!_ “Villa tends to go more to the wings and look for the spaces behind the defense, but Carlos works in the center and also holds the ball in front for us so we can play.” And Villa can’t—Villa can’t even think, because this is why Silva broke up with him? For Carlos fucking Tévez? This shit cannot be real, Villa refuses to believe it. “They are both great goal scorers,” Silva finishes, but that doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t change anything.

Villa slams his laptop shut and thinks, _Tévez? Fuck that fuck._ Villa’s better looking, better playing, and probably better fucking, too. Silva’s loss.

Silva’s _fucking_ loss.

Villa’s done with him.

 

Practice is terrible again, and everyone probably knows that something's up, because this makes twice in a row that he's been out of it, in a bad mood. Villa just— he can't focus, not enough to do quick passes or to run drills or to do anything that requires any sort of concentration. He runs an extra lap around the pitch after everyone else has stopped because he just doesn't notice. Gerard laughs, and so does Puyi, and they all kind of rib on him except for Leo, who sits and quietly stretches the way Silva always did, and probably still does. Leo watches him, too; just watches him and he probably knows what's wrong because he's too smart and too in tune with the people that he shares a pitch with to not know. But he doesn't say anything and Villa's grateful.

He works with Pedro when they do stability ball exercises, and Pedro looks at him, bites his lip and asks, "Hey. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Villa says it, but judging by the way it comes out and the look on Pedro's face afterwards, he knows that Villa doesn't mean it.

"Alright, well," Pedro says. "If you want to talk..."

Villa wants to snap, _I don't want to talk,_ but he doesn't. Instead he thinks of Manchester City and the way Silva hugs Tévez after his goals, and the way Silva used to hug him, too, back when they played for Valencia and didn't have to worry about the distance.

 

The weekend comes and Villa’s ready for it and not ready for it at the same time. He sleeps a lot and he cleans his house, and he does laundry, too, but mostly he just sleeps.

Alexis calls on Saturday.

“Hey, man,” he says. “It’s been ages, what’s up?”

“I can’t talk,” Villa says. “Call you later?”

He goes back to sleep.

 

The rest of the week kind of goes like that; Villa sleeps and he stumbles through practice, and then he goes home and feels like a fucking asshole for hanging onto someone like this. If Silva doesn't want him, he shouldn't want Silva. It's just too bad that he can't follow that rule of thought.

Practice continues on, and Villa learns how to forget everything, at least while he's on the pitch. He and Leo and Pedro all team up, like usual, and it works, it really works, but then Leo will flick his hair out of his eyes like Silva, or Pedro will say something to him-- not with his mouth, but with his gestures and the way he smiles-- just like Silva, and Villa will stumble, lose his place in the play, and they'll have to start all over again. No one says anything because he'll come through when they need him to, when it really matters, and they know that.

Pep calls him aside when they finish up on the practice pitch and everyone heads inside to the stationary bikes. They sit outside on one of the benches, and for a long time, Pep doesn't say anything.

"What?" Villa asks.

"Are you alright?" Pep asks right back.

"Yes," Villa says stiffly, because Pep is his coach; Villa likes Pep, _admires_ Pep, but Pep is not a close friend of his, not in the way that he's a friend of Leo's or Xavi's or Victor's.

"Okay," Pep says slowly. He knows Villa's lying. "Because if something's not-- I mean, if it has to do with the team, or even not-- you can talk to me. Alright?"

"I know," Villa says, because he does. Just because he won't take Pep up on it doesn't mean he doesn't know the offer exists.

"You sure nothing's wrong?"

And Villa-- it's the strangest thing, but there's something in the way Pep is looking at him, like he really cares and really wants to know, that has Villa opening his mouth. He's about to say, _I am in love with someone who doesn't love me back,_ or maybe, _The most important person in the world to me has decided that I don't matter anymore,_ or maybe even, _I am heartbroken._

Instead, he says, "Someone that I trusted really fucked me over. I'll get over it, it's fine."

He heads inside to catch up with the rest of the boys, and doesn't look back.

 

Villa learns; in the time leading up to the match against Villarreal, Villa learns. He learns how to put Silva out of his mind for the ninety minutes that he's on the pitch, and he learns to not watch Man City match highlights and how to laugh convincingly. It makes everything easier, surprisingly, stops everyone from worrying about him and helps him go back to the time when a football match was the best part of his week, the only thing that mattered.

When they play Villarreal, he runs down the pitch, sprints as fast as he can after the football, and for the first little while, the match is back-and-forth. Thirteen minutes in, Lopez blocks a header by Leo and Villa almost can't believe it; twenty-one minutes in, Victor blocks a shot by Nilmar, and Villa didn't expect anything less. But that's it, for such a long time, it feels: back and forth, back and forth, and Villa runs and runs, would run for days just for the opportunity, just to have a ball at his feet and a goal in front of him for a second, just one.

And then it happens a minute later. Andrés threads a pass to him through three Villarreal defenders and it lands perfectly right in front of him, and there's nothing else that he can do but shoot. And so he does, low and angled towards a post, and Lopez dives for it but Villa knows, knows that it's goal.

He goes running, arms spread wide, and he's so happy that his heart might burst. This— _this_ is why he plays football, for this feeling. It's not about the money or the fame; it's for the noise that a football makes when it hits the back of the net. Beautiful.

He goes running and Leo is right there, and he hugs Villa before anyone else. He hugs Villa and says, “Amazing,” and that's Leo Messi, Leo fucking Messi, and he's telling Villa that his shot was amazing. Villa smiles and laughs and hugs Leo back and hugs Pedro back and hugs Xavi back, and he hugs Dani back and he hugs Andrés back and he hugs Maxwell back. And he hugs Puyol back and he hugs Sergio back and he waves at Victor, who's applauding him from down the pitch, and he feels so happy, so fucking glad to be among family at a time like this.

"David!" Pep yells from the sideline. "David!" And Villa looks and Pep's giving him a thumbs up, and he laughs and Pep laughs and then he runs back to the center of the pitch, light of heart and ready to take on the entire fucking world by himself.

 

The atmosphere in the locker room afterwards is calm and happy; Gerard comes to celebrate in his street clothes and bemoans the fact that he had to sit out the match, and then he and Puyi do their own crazy thing, standing on top of the benches and singing, whipping at each other's legs with wet towels. Villa doesn't try to understand them. He is content if not happy, and he takes off his clothes, steps into the shower.

He stands there under the spray for a long time and thinks about the match, and where he was and where he could have been and when he was exactly where he was needed. They played well today, he thinks; not terrifically, not amazingly, but well. It makes him feel proud, to be a part of a team that plays like that.

When he steps out of the shower, it's almost completely empty except for Leo and Sergio, who are talking and laughing.

"What are you talking about?" Leo asks Sergio. " _You_ tripped and _she_ laughed."

"You are a liar and a terrible friend," Sergio says, but there's laughter in his voice. When he turns around to leave, he says to Villa, "See you later."

Then he's gone and it's just him and Leo, and he says, "Good match today, yeah?"

"Yeah," Leo says, and he doesn't say anything else after that, just stares at Villa.

"What?" Villa asks.

"Nothing," Leo says, and he raises his eyebrows like, _Really?_

"Fucking _what_?" Villa asks again.

Leo tells him, "I don't like seeing you like this."

Villa turns his back on Leo and starts to get changed.

"Like what?" he asks.

"Pretending to be happy."

"Yeah, well," Villa says, but he doesn't finish the thought because he doesn't know where he was going with it to begin with. He shoves his legs through his jeans and does up the buckle, and then dries his wet hair with his towel.

"What happened, David?" Leo asks, and this is Leo, Leo his friend, Leo who really, genuinely just cares.

"I got in a fight," Villa says, and it feels so good to just get it off his chest. "Kind of. With Silva. I don't know, we're not fucking talking or anything." He pulls his shirt on over his head.

"That sucks," Leo says, and Villa laughs and laughs and laughs. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but _That sucks_ wasn't it. "Hey, I'm being serious," Leo says. "It's never easy to lose a friend."

Villa stops laughing at that and says, "No, I guess it's not."

They walk out to their cars together, shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence, and Villa thinks that even with everyone singing Leo's praises, he doesn't get enough credit for being who he is.

"Thanks," Villa says when they're outside, the cold night wind on his cheeks.

"Shut up," Leo says, and he rolls his eyes. He thinks Villa's making fun of him.

Villa wants to say, _I'm serious,_ but instead he says, "You should be a therapist when you retire, you know that?" because that's something that he would have said before.

 

At home, though, it's a different story; at home, Villa is alone and the rooms are too empty. He's not sad anymore—actually, that's a lie, a huge fucking lie, but the sadness has dulled—and loneliness has set in, because he was so fucking sure that Silva was it. Silva was it for him.

And he thinks about Silva all the time, even when he tries not to think about him, and National Team call-ups are soon, which has Villa angry and nervous, because that means seeing Silva again. Villa wonders how he is; a part of him hopes that Silva's as lonely as he is, but he's probably with Carlos fucking Tévez and while Villa would never in a million years, he can't fault Silva that if being with him makes him happy.

He fucking hates it, that Silva's happy somewhere else and with someone else.

National Team call-ups.

Fuck.

 

And then it’s like—everything’s anti-climactic. Silva’s there and he looks good—fuck, he looks good—but he doesn’t say anything to Villa, doesn’t even look in Villa’s direction. And that, if anything, just makes everything all that much worse; what happened to _You’ll always be my best friend?_ Villa shakes his head to himself; it’s all so fucked up.

Silva spends a lot of time with Raúl and Villa pretends not to notice and not to care. They room together, too, not that it matters; Raúl was always closer to Silva, and Villa rooms with Xavi, anyways.

“You didn’t want to room with Silva?” Xavi asks as they put their suitcases in their room.

“What, I can’t want to room with you?” Villa asks.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Xavi says. “You guys are just so close that I thought you’d want to spend time together when he’s not in Manchester.”

“Oh,” Villa says, and then he lies. “Iker said that he wanted us to switch it up, join in on the team camaraderie and all that.”

Xavi probably knows he’s lying, but he doesn’t call Villa out on it.

 

Things get awkward at dinner. The team leaves Villa the seat open seat next to Silva; he walks past the chair and sits next to Puyi instead.

They get the message, even if they don’t understand it.

 

Portugal destroys them, 4-0. Villa keeps one eye on Silva all the time, sees how he laughs with everyone else before the match and how he bites his lip right before kick-off and how he tugs on the bottom hem of his jersey when he makes a poor pass or misses a shot; because of all that, he can’t focus on the ball. He’s just plain tired by the time he’s subbed off in the forty-sixth minute; Silva plays the entire match.

 

He sits next to Xabi and sleeps during the flight home. Silva sits with Raúl, and Villa can hear him laughing quietly the one time turbulence wakes him up.

 

When he's finally back in Barcelona hours and hours later, he thinks of how badly he wants to keep going, to just go home to Tuilla and to his parents and to the streets that he still knows like the back of his hand. He thinks about when he took Silva home, the first time, to meet his parents; they loved him, just like Villa did. It's hard not to love Silva; he's honest and open and beautiful.

He thinks about how happy Silva seemed; how okay he was with the fact that he and Villa no longer belonged to each other. And that's not fair, not fucking fair, and Villa knows that life isn't fair, but that doesn’t make it easier to deal with the fact that he still loves Silva and Silva doesn't give a fuck about him.

Villa lies in bed and counts the dots in the stucco ceiling. He doesn’t sleep much.

 

But life, as it always fucking does, moves on, and doesn't give a shit about whether Villa's ready to move with it or not. Matches go by faster and faster each time, it seems, and Villa loves it, loves matches more than he loves anything else he's got. They beat Almeria, they beat Real Madrid, they beat Real Sociedad, and all with high scores, too, but the lulls between matches still make him tired.

He shouldn't—he really fucking shouldn't, and Leo tells him not to-- but after seeing Silva at the Portugal match, he starts checking online for Man City news again, and he watches the interviews that Silva gives. He looks good, happy, and Villa feels like shit, but if he's going to be honest, he really doesn't want Silva to be anything other than alright.

They ask Silva all sorts of questions, questions about playing in England and how he likes his team, and about all the awards that he's won—because he has, he's won awards. Everyone loves him, and Villa's not surprised; Silva's tremendous.

But sometimes—and these are the ones that Villa watches again and again-- they ask Silva about Valencia, about if he keeps in touch with his former club and follows how they're doing, and, once, if he talks to Villa still.

"Of course," Silva says, and Villa almost believes it. His voice is soft, like always, and his eyes look anywhere but at the interviewer. "I don't talk to him as much as I like, but I follow Barcelona, and I think he's doing well."

"Any chance you'll convince him to join you in England?"

"No," Silva says. "He seems very happy in Barcelona, playing with Messi and a lot of our friends from the national team, so I don't think so. I wish, but I don't think so."

Villa saves that one in his bookmarks. It's fucking pathetic, he knows.

 

He gets lunch one day with Leo and Gerard at an Italian restaurant. Villa gets it, understands what they’re trying to do; they’re trying to make him feel better, even though maybe they don’t even really know what’s wrong to begin with. He figures that, for them, the least he can do is try to convince them that he’s okay.

He shoots the shit with Gerard while Leo just listens to them with a small smile on his face.

“I can’t believe you ordered spaghetti,” Villa says, and Gerard looks insulted.

“What’s more Italian than spaghetti?” he asks, his hands out wide.

“That’s not the point,” Villa says. “The point is you’re at an Italian restaurant and you can make spaghetti at your house in about ten minutes.”

Gerard takes a massive bite and says to him as the pasta’s still hanging out of his mouth, “You’re just jealous. Bracioline Ripiene not working out for you?”

“This is where I tell you to go fuck yourself, and that my meal is delicious,” Villa says, and then he mutters to himself, “Spaghetti.”

Leo just laughs and watches them bicker.

 

Later, sometime after that, Villa has a dream, and it's so vivid that when he wakes up, he's surprised that it never actually happened.

They're in Tuilla, standing in the middle of the narrow street that Villa grew up on. Silva's got a football at his feet and his knees are knobby, and Villa looks at him, at his graying hair and at the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and he feels such a sense of familiarity in his chest, such a sense of love, and it makes his entire body feel light.

"Come on, El Guaje," Silva goads, and he's smiling wide. "Or should I say, El Viejo?"

"Hey, fuck you," Villa says. "You're not that much younger, you know."

"Five whole years," Silva reminds him, and Villa rolls his eyes because he _knows_. "Race you home," Silva says, and he takes off, runs away from Villa with the football at his feet. Villa chases after him, and right away his knees hurt, his ankles hurt, and he's tired by the end of the block.

"Hey!" he yells, because Silva's so far away, running like he was twenty-four again. "Wait up!"

"Race you home!" Silva yells again, and Villa runs and runs and runs after him, but the street is so long and their house is so far away. And Villa runs.

 

His phone ringing wakes him up and shakes the dream out of his head. He reaches blindly around on his end table for it and answers it without checking who was calling.

“What?” he says.

“Hey, Villa? It’s Leo.”

“ _What_?” Villa snaps. He’s tired as shit.

“Oh, sorry—did I—?” Leo asks.

“Yes,” Villa says. “What is it?”

“I can talk to you later,” Leo says.

“Leo,” Villa warns.

“Look—I just wanted to say that I talked to Tévez last night,” Leo says. “He says that Silva’s been—I don’t know—not happy either.” He ends that sentence like maybe he’s not supposed to know that Villa’s unhappy, or like maybe he’s not supposed to mention Silva’s name.

“Fucking fantastic,” Villa says. “Maybe _Tévez_ can help him through it.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Leo says.

“I have to go,” Villa says.

He hangs up and contemplates going back to bed, but he has practice and so instead he gets up, heads downstairs for something to eat.

 

He’s benched for the match against Bilbao the next day. He doesn’t particularly mind; it’s only the first leg of their Copa match and Leo’s benched, too, same as Victor and Puyi.

“Hey, listen,” Leo says. “I just wanted to say that I really think you should call Silva because—”

“Can we not talk about this?” Villa asks. “I’m trying to watch the match.”

“Sure,” Leo says, and Villa thinks, _Fuck_ , because he didn’t mean to but he can tell that he’s being a dick.

“Look, I don’t—I get what you’re trying to do,” Villa says. “And thanks. But it’s not what I need right now.”

“Okay,” Leo says. “I just want, you know. You to be alright.”

Villa wants to say a lot of things, wants to thank Leo for being his friend and for being there, but he doesn’t; instead, he smiles a pretty fucking sad smile and says, “Thanks.”

Leo’s subbed on in the fifty-fourth and then Villa’s subbed on in the sixty-third, but they still can’t do shit and Barcelona ties, 0-0. If he’s going to be honest, Villa doesn’t care; he’s looking forward to the break.

 

Villa tells himself that he’s going to mope for a solid week and then it’s time to get the fuck over it. He’s not proud of it or anything, but it’s a low point for him; for the first two days, he sits in front of his tv in his boxers and doesn’t leave the house. He eats a lot of cereal and doesn’t really do any dishes. He doesn’t answer his phone.

Someone knocks on his door a couple of days into it all, and Villa answers it half-dressed.

“What the fuck, Raúl?” he says, letting him in. “A little warning would be nice.”

Raúl laughs and says, “Hey, I called you three times. I’m in town; buy me a drink and maybe I’ll let you feel me up in the car on the way home.”

“You’re a twisted motherfucker,” Villa says, but really, he’s glad for the company. “Just let me get dressed.”

“Shower, too,” Raúl says, and he settles himself onto the couch. “I’m gonna play Xbox until you’re ready.”

 

They go out to a bar and Villa gets drunk enough that he forgets to be sad.

“Why are you here?” Villa asks, and he has to shout over the music.

Raúl shrugs and says, “I heard you had some free time.” Villa does not think about it and does not think about it.

“Well, I fucking love it here,” he says, waving his beer in one hand. “I fucking _love_ it, you _madridista_ piece of shit.”

Raúl laughs, “You’re into the rivalry, I take it.”

“It keeps things exciting,” Villa says. “Puts purpose into my life.” He finishes what’s left of his beer and tries to get the bartender’s attention.

“You and Silva still not talking?” Raúl asks, although he looks like he knows he shouldn’t.

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Villa says.

“Okay,” Raúl says. He laughs a little bit more when Villa almost falls off his stool.

“You know who should be here? You know who you’d like?” Villa asks. “Dani Alves. He is batshit insane.”

“Ah. The Alexis of Barcelona,” Raúl says.

“Still better than having Ramos in your club,” Villa says. “Too many fucking fights!”

“Too many fights?” Raúl asks. “You punched some guy from Honduras _and_ Bilbao.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Villa says. “Everybody’s a critic.”

Raúl orders them another round.

 

In the end, Raúl has to half-carry him out of a cab and up his front steps.

“You lightweight,” Raúl says. “Never would have guessed it.”

“Lightweight?” Villa scoffs. “I drank like twelve liters tonight. Go fuck yourself.”

They make their way into the house with some difficulty, and then Raúl helps him upstairs.

“Are you good?” Raúl asks, and he’s laughing. “You gonna be alright?” He reaches out to steady Villa when he teeters in the middle of his bedroom.

“Fuck you,” Villa says. “I’m fine. I’m going to sleep and then I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Raúl says. “I put the trash next to your bed, and a glass of water, just in case.”

“You’re such an asshole for letting me drink this much,” Villa says.

“A thousand apologies,” Raúl says. “See you later.”

And then he’s gone, down the hallway and the stairs and just gone. Villa stares at his open bedroom door for a second and then stumbles towards the bathroom, where he leans heavily against the wall and slides down to the floor. He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out his cell phone, and then before he can think it over, he calls Silva.

“Hi,” Silva says, and Villa doesn’t know why he called, why he’s doing this to himself. He rests his forehead against his knees and just breathes into the phone. “Villa?”

“Yeah?” he says finally.

“Are you okay?”

And Villa thinks, _Am I okay? No, I’m not fucking okay._ And he thinks of how easy it was to be with Silva when they were in Valencia, and how perfect they were together, on the pitch and in bed and everything in between. And the part that kills him—that really fucking kills him—is that all of the bad moments with Silva are still a million times better than the best ones without him.

“I have to go,” Villa says.

He hangs up.

 

Villa’s not sure if he dreams this or if it actually happens or what, but he thinks he wakes up in the middle of the night and thinks he hears someone in the bathroom.

“Silva?” he calls out, and then he remembers that Silva’s not there.

He waits a second and doesn’t hear anything else, so he goes back to sleep.

 

Break passes quickly and Villa’s back at practice before he even realizes it. He tells himself that things with Silva are what they are, and that he’s going to move on, not be so mad anymore; it surprisingly changes everything, his outlook on life and the weight on his shoulders.

They play foot volley and he pairs with Leo. He’s not completely okay yet, but Leo smiles at him like he knows, and Villa thinks that maybe everything will work out in the end.

They get a good volley going at his net, at least eighteen passes since it last hit the ground, and then Maxwell kicks it a little harder than normal and Villa has to go chasing after it to keep it off the grass. He slips as he returns it, and the football goes flying in the opposite direction from what he wants. Sergio does a slow clap from two nets away.

“Graceful!” he cheers. “Like a football angel!”

“Fuck off!” Villa yells back. He grabs one of the extra footballs lying off to the side and blasts it at Sergio’s head.

After practice, they all shower and the locker room is loud, happy. Gerard sings the Lionel Messi song from Crackovia as Leo sits on the bench and laughs, and in the corner, Andrés and Victor are talking in a language of quotes and sound effects that only they understand. Villa showers and gets dressed, and joins Gerard in one chorus of the Messi song before he leaves.

Leo jogs down the hall after him.

“Hey, David,” he says, and they walk to the parking lot together. “You wanna come over for some more FIFA tomorrow? I’ll train you; you can be my little prodigy.”

Villa laughs. “You? Train me?” he says. “No. It’ll be the other way around. I’ve gotten exponentially better since last time.” He pushes open the door to get outside and then holds it open for Leo.

“How big of an exponent are we talking?” Leo asks, and he sounds like he doesn’t believe a word of it.

Villa laughs, but that gets cut short when he notices that Silva is in the parking lot, leaning against a black four-door. Villa almost has to do a double take.

“Hey,” Silva says, and he raises one hand in a wave. “Hey, Messi, how’s it going?” His voice is quiet and Villa wants to take him by the arms and shake him, says, _You don’t need to be shy; you know Leo_ , and, _What are you doing here? Go home._

“Good,” Leo says. “Real good. I’m surprised to see you here, though; Manchester letting you get away?”

Silva laughs and says, “No, nothing like that. I’m just here to talk to Villa.” He motions awkwardly at Villa, as if Leo didn’t know who he was.

“Alright,” Leo says. “Well, then I’ll let you get to it. It was nice seeing you.” He waves to Silva and tells Villa to call him later, and then he heads to his own car; Villa is left suddenly floundering for something to say.

“Hey,” Silva says again, this time to just Villa. “Can we talk?” A couple of other people walk out into the parking lot, two of the trainers and Xavi and Andrés. They don’t come over or anything, probably notice that Silva and Villa need to work something out, but they do wave. Silva waves back.

“I’m going home, actually,” Villa says. And then, because it’s Silva and he can’t say no, he says, “You can follow me, if you want.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, but Silva heads to his own car and so Villa knows the answer.

 

On the drive, Villa worries a little. He doesn’t know why Silva’s here or what he wants, and as much as he wants to see Silva, he really, _really_ doesn’t want to see Silva. Villa is turning over a new leaf, starting again, and he doesn’t have time to deal with this kind of shit.

When he gets home, he parks his car in the driveway and Silva pulls his rental in behind him; even though it would be polite to wait for Silva, Villa doesn’t, just heads to unlock his front door.

He lets Silva inside and then they stand in the foyer awkwardly for a minute. Villa doesn’t know what to do or say because he doesn’t even know why Silva’s in Barcelona to begin with, and because everything that he wants to do, he’s no longer allowed to.

“Nice house,” Silva says, and he looks around. Villa suddenly feels incredibly self-conscious because there is still a picture of the two of them on the wall; Silva doesn’t mention it.

“Thanks,” Villa says. “I forgot you hadn’t seen it. Living room’s in here.”

He leads Silva into the next room and sits in one of the armchairs; Silva sits at one end of the couch and Villa is so mad at him, so fucking mad, because if Silva hadn’t decided that he wanted different things—if he hadn’t have gone to Manchester—they’d still be together and Villa would be on the couch with him.

“I, um,” Silva says. “I really just—I wanted to make sure that you were okay. You didn’t sound too good on the phone, and I guess I was, I don’t know, worried or something.”

Villa thinks back on it and he thinks, _On the phone?_ They haven’t talked since La Roja call-ups, and even that was barely a greeting.

“We haven’t talked since Portugal,” Villa says.

“You called me a few days ago,” Silva says. “In the middle of the night sometime.”

And Villa thinks—fuck, he must have called Silva when he got back from hanging out with Raúl, and he doesn’t even remember it. How can he not remember it? He doesn’t know what he said, or what Silva said, and he doesn’t know if he—

“Look, whatever I said—”

“You didn’t say anything,” Silva interrupts. “Nothing like that. I just—I got worried.”

“Well, you don’t have to be,” Villa says. “That’s not your job anymore.”

And he doesn’t know why he says that, because he knows that’s rude and will only hurt Silva, if anything. He sees Silva’s face and how he looks shocked and sad at the same time, just for a second. Villa feels like an asshole even though he has no real reason to; he and Silva aren’t together anymore.

“But I still want—” Silva says, and he looks down instead of at Villa, looks at his hands in his lap. “Can’t we still be friends?”

“I don’t think so,” Villa says, and that—that he’s not saying to be mean; that’s him being honest. He doesn’t think he can be friends with Silva and not want to touch him, doesn’t think he can ever be okay with wanting to touch Silva but not being able to. And he thought—he thought that if anything ever happened, they’d still hang out because even after all of this, Silva’s the best friend he’s ever had. But he doesn’t want to be Silva’s friend, not even if being Silva’s friend is the only option he has. He’s far too fucking selfish for that.

“But I miss you,” Silva says, and he whispers it.

“I miss you, too,” Villa says. “But I can’t do this.”

And this hurts more than any of it, more than the not talking and the avoidance. He thought closure was supposed to bring him some sense of peace.

“Okay,” Silva says, and he nods to himself. He wipes his hands on the front of his jeans and stands up and says it again, “Okay.”

As Villa watches him walk away, he’s struck with the sudden realization that this is it, the end of everything, and that once Silva walks out his door, there will be no going back to friends and they will only ever see each other when they play for La Roja.

And that thought just tears him up inside, wraps tight around his throat until he can’t breathe and he’s so mad—all the time, mad at Silva for doing this to them—that he just says, “Fuck you.” He says it slow and steady and he means it.

Silva turns to look at him and he’s silent for a minute like he really can’t believe Villa would say that, and then he asks, “What did _I_ do?”

Villa laughs dryly and stands up, and suddenly they’re face to face and Villa says, “Don’t try to turn this around on me because you left Spain and decided that everything you left behind wasn’t worth shit.”

“Hey, I wanted to stay,” Silva says. “Valencia got rid of me, remember? Not the other way around.”

“And _you_ got rid of _me_ ,” Villa shoots back.

Silva shakes his head and doesn’t say anything for a long while, and Villa doesn’t know what that means. He supposes he should feel good for winning the argument but he just feels like shit.

“I never would have,” Silva says finally. “Not if you hadn’t gotten rid of me first.”

“Gotten rid of you?” he asks, and he laughs again even though it’s not funny. “Fuck, Silva, open your eyes—why would I do that? Why would I fucking do that?”

“Because you have _Messi_ now,” Silva says, and after he does, he clenches his teeth; Villa can see the muscles in his jaw work.

“How does that even compare?” Villa asks, because it doesn’t, not even a little bit.

“Because Messi’s a _tremendous footballer_ , right, Villa?” Silva asks. “You said so yourself.”

And Villa can’t—he just can’t even believe it. Can’t even believe that after all of this—after everything—it was all just a mistake. He hopes it was a mistake; hopes he understands what Silva means, because if he does—if he does—he doesn’t know what. He can feel the tension and the sadness drain out of his body, out of the tips of his fingers and toes, and in his chest blooms hope.

“I think _you’re_ a tremendous footballer,” Villa says, and he says it slowly. “Leo and I aren’t—we’re not together. We never were.” He can see Silva think it over, how his eyebrows pull together and he bites his lip.

“But—but you said—”

“Not like that,” Villa says. “Maybe I said it wrong, and Leo is a great footballer, but I’ve told you—you’re it for me.”

Silva looks down and rubs at the backs of his eyelids with the heels of his palms, and Villa just stands there, frozen, hopeful.

“So are you saying,” Silva asks, “that there’s no one else?”

“No,” Villa says. “Is there for you?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Villa says. “So then where do we go from here?”

“Can I kiss you again?” Silva asks, and he licks his lips. And there’s something just so funny about that, about how after all this time, Silva feels the need to ask, as if there were anything in the world that Villa wouldn’t give him if he could. And he starts laughing, quietly at first, but then it keeps building and building until Villa can hardly breathe, and Silva’s laughing too, and they’re holding on to each other just to stay upright.

It feels really fucking good, to have Silva’s arms around him again. He’s missed Silva’s skin.

When he can breathe again, when he and Silva stop laughing, Villa looks at Silva and rubs the pad of his thumb across Silva’s cheekbone and then leans in, kisses Silva on the lips. It starts out soft, it really does, but in about a second it changes, changes to the point where there’s more tongue and more teeth and they’re pressing their bodies against each other and pulling each other closer. It’s been too long, too fucking long, an entire month of nothingness.

Silva reaches between them and pulls at Villa’s shirt hard enough that some of the buttons go flying off and he can slide if off Villa’s shoulders. And then he’s got his hands everywhere, all over Villa’s chest and back, fingers swiping across Villa’s nipples as he sucks hard on Villa’s neck.

“Wait, wait,” Villa says. “Yours too, come on.” He tugs at the hem of Silva’s shirt and Silva pulls away only long enough to pull it up over his head by the hem at the back of his neck. He kisses Villa again and Villa fumbles with his belt as he does. There’s too much clothing, they’re wearing too much, and it has to go.

Silva helps him, reaches down and shoves Villa’s jeans down over his hips before backing him into the couch. Villa lets him, and then he sits down, watches as Silva pushes his own jeans down and kicks them to the side. Villa reaches out and brackets Silva’s bare hips with his hands, pulls Silva down until he’s on his knees, straddling Villa on the couch.

They kiss and Silva rests his hands on Villa’s chest, his thumbs swiping back and forth over Villa’s nipples as he grinds their hips together.

“Villa,” Silva says, and he sounds so wrecked that Villa almost can’t stand it. “God, Villa, I’ve missed this.”

“Me, too,” Villa says. “Fuck, I’ve missed _you_.”

They don’t talk much besides that, but their hips move in sync and their cocks slide together as Villa sucks bruises along Silva’s collarbone. And then, when Silva gets close and starts moving his body a little too fast, Villa grabs his hips and holds him still, slowly grinds up into him until Silva is shaking, begging to come. Villa almost doesn’t want to let him because he likes how Silva looks like this, his hair a mess and Villa’s marks all over his skin, his mouth hanging open and his eyes shut tight. And then—

“Come for me.”

And Silva does; he comes all over Villa chest and stomach and Villa keeps his grip on Silva’s hips, keeps pulling Silva down and grinding his hips up.

“Stop,” Silva says. “Stop, stop, stop.” His voice is breathless and his grip is loose on Villa’s shoulders.

“What?” Villa asks, and he doesn’t want to—he’s so close, doesn’t want to stop.

“It’s fine, just—”

Villa watches as Silva pushes back off of him and off of the couch before kneeling on the floor between his spread knees. And fuck, it’s been so long since the last time Silva’s sucked him off that he groans just at the thought. He reaches out to thread the fingers of one hand through Silva’s hair.

“Later,” Silva says, and he grabs Villa’s hand at the wrist, moves Villa’s hand to his own cock. Villa’s so hard he almost can’t think, and then Silva is using his hand to wrap Villa’s fingers around his cock and he leans in close, close enough that when Villa comes, he’ll—

“Fuck,” Villa says, and he pumps his hand up and down his cock and Silva’s just sitting there, watching, his hands on Villa’s knees and his mouth slightly open and he just watches as Villa jerks himself off and Villa can’t—he can’t—

Villa’s come stripes Silva’s cheek and the bridge of his nose, and some of it catches his lower lip. He reaches out and runs his thumb along Silva’s skin, spreads his come out along Silva’s mouth. Silva licks Villa’s thumb clean and it is the sexiest thing that he has ever seen.

“Hi,” Villa says, and he smiles at Silva.

“Hi,” Silva says back. “So we’re—are we okay?”

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” Villa says.

“I’m okay.” Silva kisses the inside of Villa’s thigh, and Villa threads his fingers through Silva’s hair; Silva doesn’t stop him this time.

“You can’t fucking do that to me again,” Villa says, but it’s not said in an accusatory manner or anything. “We’re a team, okay?”

“Okay,” Silva says. He doesn’t apologize and Villa wouldn’t ask him to.

“How long are you here for?”

“I have to leave tomorrow morning,” Silva says. Villa’s come is still on his cheek.

“Maybe I can come visit next weekend?” Villa asks.

Silva smiles into Villa’s thigh and says, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

At some point, in the middle of the night when the lights are out, they talk.

“How could you ever fucking think that I wanted somebody else?” Villa asks, and he drags his fingertips over Silva’s spine.

“Look at you,” Silva says.

“Look at _you_.”

“I get that now.”

“I could never want anyone else,” Villa says, and it’s the most truthful thing he’s ever said.

“It’s going to be hard, getting back to where we were,” Silva says.

“I know. But it’s worth it to me.”

“To me, too.”

“Then we’ll do it.”

 

They have sex two more times that night and once in the morning before Silva has to leave, and Villa tops twice. In the shower, they kiss and wash each other’s bodies; Villa covers his palms with soap and then places his hands flat on Silva’s chest and traces the lines of his collarbones, the curves of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Silva says, and, there it is, the apology that Villa thought they were just going to skip over. It’s said so quietly that he almost doesn’t hear it over the shower.

“Don’t,” Villa says. He doesn’t want to or need to hear it.

“Will you forgive me?” Silva asks, and his eyes are trained on Villa’s chest.

“I already have,” Villa says.

When they’re done, Villa dries Silva off with a towel and kisses over all of the bites and bruises from the night before, and then later he watches as Silva roots around in the kitchen half-dressed for something to eat.

“No _gofio_?” he asks.

“No _gofio_ ,” Villa says, and he laughs. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, watching Silva struggle to find his way around. “I’ve told you that it’s gross about a million fucking times.”

“Really?” Silva asks, and he pops his head up from behind the refrigerator door. “I thought you were just joking about that.”

“Not even a little bit,” Villa says.

Silva walks over to him then, barefoot in Villa’s kitchen and wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and kisses him on the mouth. He leaves the fridge open.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Silva says. “Not now that everything’s okay again.”

“Hazard of the job, I guess,” Villa says. “But we’ll be alright.”

 

The drive to the airport is comfortable, quiet. Villa tells Silva that they just passed someone in a Valencia number twenty-one jersey on the sidewalk and Silva calls him a liar, and Villa just laughs and says, “No, it’s true, it’s true.”

He reaches across the center console and laces his fingers with Silva’s; it’s cold out but Silva’s hands are warm, and Silva smiles at him. He wants to reach over and brush Silva’s hair out of his eyes, to swipe the pad of his thumb across Silva’s cheekbone, but he doesn’t. He squeezes Silva’s fingers instead.

“I love you, you know,” Villa says. It’s the first time he’s ever said it and it’s easier than he expected.

“Yeah, I know,” Silva says, and he’s smiling again, that smile that he reserves for Villa and Villa alone. “I love you, too.”

“Good,” Villa says. “Because—good.”

“Yeah?” Silva asks, and Villa wants to remember this exact moment for the rest of his life, how there’s sunlight streaming in through the window and how Silva’s thumb swipes back and forth on his skin.

“Yeah.”


End file.
